


ain't youth meant to be beautiful?

by Shadowcrawler, unwindmyself



Series: What do you say, is this the time for one more try at a happy life? [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angry Sex, Aromantic, Bar Room Brawl, College Theatre, Coming Out, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, F/F, Female Friendship, Femslash, Femslash February, First Dates, First Meetings, Flirting, Gen, House Party, Jealousy, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Queerplatonic Relationships, References to Shakespeare, Surprise Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-18 18:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3579159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcrawler/pseuds/Shadowcrawler, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwindmyself/pseuds/unwindmyself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Relevant flashback scenes that fit in the history of the shopping mall alternate universe.</p><p>This time: Shortly after a breakup, Melinda ends up at the local queer bar, where she runs into an acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the only time you open up is when we get undressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sif attempts to go about her business, while trying to contend with the sexual freight train that is Lorelei.

“Wait, hold on a second.” Sif holds up a hand. “Betsy, I hate to do this again but could you have a talk with Lorelei? She’s...vamping at me and it’s distracting.”

Lorelei does what has become her nearly patented routine. She flips her hair over her shoulder, she puts her hand on her hip, she pouts. God, does she pout. “Well, I’m pretty sure Olivia is supposed to be flirting with not-Viola,” she says.

“Yes, but you don’t have to do it so...convincingly,” mutters Sif, glaring at her.

Betsy Braddock, who’s directing this play as a favor to her brother more than anything, rolls her eyes. “Look, I’d just like to get through this scene once more without any interruptions. You, from the top, and _you_ ,” she swings around to Lorelei, “have an unnerving tendency to make bedroom eyes at everyone and everything. Tone it down.”

Lorelei huffs. “Are you really, honestly telling me to play her prudish?”

“No, I’m telling you to play her more like an infatuated woman and less like one of the prostitutes from _Les Miserables_.”

“Fine,” Lorelei grumbles, not bothering to mention that hey, she was Fantine, not just some nameless nobody. That was high school, though, and that means it’s not worth a hell of a lot here. So she brushes invisible dirt off of herself and adopts a less seductive posture. “Give me leave, beseech you, I did send…”

 

* * *

 

They’ve moved on to another scene, but Sif’s fairly sure that the blocking Betsy laid out vaguely for them _doesn’t_ include Lorelei herding her against the wall while purring the line about giving Cesario her ring.

“N-nothing but this; your true love for my master,” Sif mumbles, ducking her head and doing her best not to make eye contact (this is certainly method acting).

“How with my honour may I give him that which I have given to you?” Lorelei purrs, one hand coming to stroke up and down Sif’s side as she leans in, full of intention.

“I - I will acquit you,” gasps Sif, trying her best to muscle her way out of the way Lorelei’s basically got her pinned against the wall (and goddammit, Lorelei’s touch is causing some embarrassing reactions that she’d rather not acknowledge).

Lorelei doesn’t say her next line, though. She’s apparently oblivious to Sif’s discomfort, because she presses against Sif and gets so close she can feel the other girl’s breath on her lips.

“Oh my god, seriously?” Sif shoves her away and growls, “You’re impossible!”

“I thought it made sense,” Lorelei shrugs, the picture of innocence.

Betsy sighs. “I think we’d better call it a day. Lorelei, please stop sexually harassing Sif. I will involve the administration in this if I have to.”

Lorelei holds her hands up and very deliberately steps back, though she doesn’t take her eyes off of Sif. The look on her face has gone from wildly inappropriate to honestly indecipherable.

Meanwhile, Sif is running her hands through her hair, pretending she wasn’t just flustered, and pointedly not making eye contact with Lorelei. _I’m going to kill Fandral for this,_ she promises herself.

 

* * *

 

“...but I never said you actually had to _do_ it!” Fandral protests, attempting to swat her away as she hits him repeatedly with her binder.

“No, but if you’d never brought it up I wouldn’t have done it!” replies Sif, eyes blazing. “See if I ever take another of your stupid dares again!”

“Oh dear, has Fandral caused you to fall into another unfortunate mishap again?” asks Volstagg, who’s stopped walking down the hallway to watch Sif attempt to throttle Fandral.

Sif huffs. “It’s Lorelei. I can’t stand being around her! She thinks it’s funny to get all up in my face with that stupid sexy smirk and try to kiss me…”

“Ah, sexy smirk?” says Fandral, not even looking regretful when she whacks him again. “Do I detect a hint of repressed desire, Sif?”

“Oh my god!” Sif turns to walk away. “You’re ridiculous. I could never...not _her_ , with her stupid fuck-me face and cleavage for days. She’s horrible.”

Volstagg is smiling too. “Whatever you say, Sif.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow, miraculously, the play goes over well. Lorelei tones it down...enough, and Sif grits her teeth and does her part (it might have been easier if the guy playing Orsino wasn’t also an insufferably smug douchebag, but what could anyone expect from someone named Pete Wisdom?), and at the very least she and Piotr have agreed to be something like friends despite the fact that they’ll probably never have another school-sanctioned reason to cross paths again. The Russian exchange student proved himself to be an ally during the insanity of it all, and Sif’s glad of it. Her boys show up and Thor presents her with a bouquet of roses on opening night, prompting some raised eyebrows from students who believe the ridiculous rumors that they’re sleeping together. Sif punches him on the arm in gratitude and ignores the pointed stares; it’s none of their business.

The weekend after the play, she and the boys are invited to a house party (whose house? Thor doesn’t know, Fandral doesn’t care, and honestly, neither does Sif as long as there’s booze) and she’s never been happier to be drinking shitty beer while EDM reverberates through a house. “The next time I get an idea to do anything remotely like that again, please knock some sense into me,” she says cheerfully.

“Gladly,” replies Volstagg, grinning. “Though I thought you did rather well.”

“Yes,” says Hogun, offering a small smile that might as well be a full-toothed grin. “You were good.”

“Although,” chimes in Thor, his voice teasing, “I felt that perhaps you had more convincing chemistry with Olivia than with your male paramour.”

“ _God_ , don’t get me started!” Sif groans. “Lorelei, she’s...she flirted with me every chance she got, she refused to stop even when Betsy threatened her-”

Fandral whistles. “My my. Could it be you’re her next target? I didn’t think she was interested in women, but that’s a pleasant mental image… _augh_!” He doubles over when Sif elbows him in the ribs.

“Please! She was only doing it to rattle me.” Sif downs the rest of her beer. “I’m not talking about this anymore. I’m going to go dance.”

Perhaps that’s not the best idea, though, because Sif isn’t on the impromptu dance floor more than thirty seconds before there’s an arm wrapping around her waist and a low voice in her ear saying, “Hey, gorgeous.”

Sif stiffens. “What do _you_ want?”

“For starters, a half-decent dance partner,” Lorelei says, wrinkling her nose at some of their peers. “I’ve been accosted by completely charmless oafs all night.”

Sif sighs and asks, “If I dance with you, will you leave me alone?” Not that she expects Lorelei to honor that deal either, but it’s worth a try.

“I don’t know why you expect you’d want me to,” Lorelei shrugs.

“Because...because…” Sif stammers. “...because I don’t want anything to do with you.” It’s not even especially convincing to her own ears, and that irritates her.

“Well, I know it’s not because you’re having one off with one of those friends of yours,” Lorelei shrugs, gently starting to sway her hips and urging Sif to do the same. “ _Why_ you’re not doing, that’s another story, but still.”

Before she can stop herself, Sif makes a noise of disgust at Lorelei’s remark. “They’re like brothers to me.” Before she quite realizes it, she’s started to sway her hips in time with Lorelei’s.

“Well, I understand that with Volstagg, I suppose,” Lorelei says. “He’s like a combination between a teddy bear and an Easy Bake Oven.”

“And he’s married,” says Sif quickly, with a warning look. “Which doesn’t mean the others are up for grabs for you, either.”

“I don’t want them,” Lorelei says airily.

“Good,” replies Sif firmly. “Then...what _do_ you want?” She has a sinking feeling she knows, but maybe being direct will have better results.

“Something much better, obviously,” Lorelei hums. She joins her hands at the small of Sif’s back, stepping closer.

Sif could pull away, but she decides not to. “Meaning me.”

Lorelei nods just once, slightly enough that it could be an accident though it clearly isn’t. “You’re intriguing,” she says.

“How so?” Sif’s just tipsy enough that she suddenly feels like playing along.

“For one thing, you’re prettier than most of the girls in this room combined.”

“You think?” Sif asks, trying for indifference. “I certainly don’t work at it half as hard as some of them.”

“That’s part of the appeal, although I don’t mean that in the way that dumbass guys do when they’re trying to woo someone who’s _not like the other girls_ ,” Lorelei says. “But I don’t waste time on someone who’s not pretty.”

Sif rolls her eyes. “I’m flattered, I suppose. You’re...well, you certainly present yourself well.”

“I know,” Lorelei smirks. “But thank you. Entirely aside from that, has anyone ever told you how incredibly sexy it is to watch you fight? Even when it’s just playing around.”

Goddammit, Lorelei knows her weakness. Sif does her best to keep her expression neutral and says, “Thanks. You should see me fence.”

“I’m sure that I should,” Lorelei agrees. “Watching you, that passion in your eyes…” She trails off, only to interrupt herself with a lascivious little moan of enthusiasm.

All right, so that noise made Sif react. She refuses to admit it. “I know what you’re doing,” she says. “You’re trying to frustrate me enough that I’ll agree to sleep with you.”

“Well, that would be a nice end to this mediocre party,” Lorelei replies with a shrug.

“You’re infuriating. All your manipulation and double-speak…” Sif trails off when she realizes she’s staring at Lorelei’s lips.

“Don’t you want to know if that’s not all that my mouth can do?” Lorelei whispers, because - well, being honest, she’s used to being able to get away with horrible lines.

That makes Sif angry, and suddenly she wants to shut Lorelei up more than anything, and the most obvious way is to kiss her. So she does, hard and fast and aggressive.

Lorelei groans, pressing her hands into Sif’s back and immediately opening her mouth to allow the kiss to escalate. She’s drunk enough that she doesn’t think about what it is that’s going on, only that it’s fun, and dammit, she’s been kissing idiots for months.

Sif lets her tongue slip inside Lorelei’s mouth, enjoying the noises she’s making. She’s not always so rough with her kisses, but she can tell Lorelei likes it that way. Truth be told, Sif does too. Lorelei’s a damn good kisser.

“Damn,” Lorelei murmurs. “Are you going to attack me for suggesting we move this into another room?”

“I should, but I won’t,” Sif says, practically snarls. She’s just drunk enough to not listen to the parts of her brain that are telling her what a bad idea this is.

Pleased, Lorelei grabs Sif’s hand and tugs her out of the main room, through the door on the opposite side of the wall from where all of the boytoys are still congregated. She doesn’t need to hear the comments from the peanut gallery.

“Where were you thinking?” asks Sif.

“I’m sure you’re not an exhibitionist,” Lorelei says, halfway teasing, “so probably nowhere with an audience.”

Sif snorts. “I’d really rather not, no.”

“And nowhere your little posse is likely to look for you,” Lorelei continues, gaze traveling over the rooms they pass.

“Yes, I’d never hear the end of it. Fandral and Thor were going on and on about how I must be secretly attracted to you.”

“Are Fandral and Thor projecting?” Lorelei asks lightly.

Sif can feel herself flushing and hates her face for it. “Not...entirely,” she mumbles. “That’s the drink talking.”

“Then the drink makes you less repressed, and I think that’s cute,” Lorelei replies, moving in to kiss Sif’s cheek even though she never does things like that, ever.

Bristling, Sif protests, “I’m not repressed! You’re not the first girl I’ve slept with.”

“Oh, so you’re planning on it getting that far!” Lorelei exclaims, giggling.

“Er...I just...I assumed…” Sif shakes her head. “You do have a certain...reputation. Fandral’s convinced I’m your next target.”

“Because I enjoyed getting a rise out of you?” Lorelei asks.

“Yes. No. I…” Sighing, Sif puts her head in the hand that Lorelei’s not tugging on. “You’re impossible. I don’t know why I’m here right now.”

“Look,” Lorelei says, and she can hear the tone in her voice that means she’s about to make this a Serious Conversational Moment like she also never does but she’s had enough to drink herself that she doesn’t stop. “Is it fun to freak you out? Yes. But you do genuinely interest me. You’re a badass, strong, passionate woman, and I’m certain you could flatten anyone who got in your way.” She punctuates it with a shrug, one that’s designed to downplay the words a bit.

Sif’s slightly taken aback. She’s never heard Lorelei say anything half so genuine - or apparently genuine. “T-Thank you,” she says, blinking. “You certainly have a way with words.”

“I’ve been told,” Lorelei says, returned to her usual devil-may-care attitude. She spots a room up ahead with the lights turned down and pulls on Sif’s hand excitedly to get her to hurry along.

“And,” adds Sif, knowing she’ll regret this but choosing to blame the drink, “you’re not so hard on the eyes either.”

“Mm, and I know you’re not saying that just to flatter me into fucking you, since you’ve already assumed we’re going to fuck,” Lorelei hums. She enters the apparently abandoned room, turns the lights on, and when she sees that there’s a giant pillow fort in the center of the room she bursts out laughing.

Sif starts giggling too. “Christ, this party is so weird.”

“I’ve been to weirder,” Lorelei says. “At least there are no ritual sacrifices.” It’s hard to tell whether or not she’s joking.

Resolutely not commenting, Sif swallows and replies, “Inside there, then? We might not be...interrupted.”

“Is there a sock we could leave on the door handle? Isn’t that the cliche?”

Right at that moment Sif realizes she’s wearing her most embarrassing pair of socks. Because of course she is. “I, ah…I have some we could use.” She leans down to unlace one of her boots and pulls off the sock, holding it up sheepishly. It’s grey, with a bay horse’s head taking up the ankle. The embarrassing part is that it has bits of black string that are meant to be a mane sticking off of the back of it.

Lorelei laughs even more. “You never cease to amaze,” she murmurs, taking the sock and flouncing over to tie it around the doorknob.

“They were a present.” Sif shrugs, trying to pretend she’s not embarrassed. “I rode for years and Thor’s mother likes to give practical gifts.”

Lorelei wrinkles her nose. “They really are like brothers to you,” she muses.

“What else would they be?”

“Any number of things,” Lorelei says, because even with the cloud of alcohol she recognizes it’s not a great idea to come out and describe Sif’s friends as potential “convenient, mindless fuckzombies” when she’s trying to charm her.

Rolling her eyes, Sif begins to take off her other boot. “I won’t press you for details.”

That’s probably better, Lorelei thinks. She hasn’t started to take anything off yet, and instead she’s just watching, idly biting her bottom lip. “Am I going to get a show?”

“If you like,” says Sif playfully, kicking her boot off and beginning to shrug off her leather jacket, then once that’s off, slowly peeling off her black T-shirt, maintaining eye contact with Lorelei as she does.

And Lorelei just smirks, surveying Sif with no shame. “I like very much.”

Sif grins, though it’s hidden for a moment as she pulls the shirt over her head. “Good,” she hums, reaching for the zipper on her jeans next.

“Is it incredibly crass of me to ask how many girls have come before me?” Lorelei murmurs.

“No, it’s understandable. Enough.” Sif eases her jeans down her legs, shaking her ass just a little. She probably wouldn’t if she were sober, but she wouldn’t be doing any of this if she were sober.

Lorelei grins delightedly. “Look at you go.”

Sif pauses to strike a pose, smirking. “Shall I continue, or would you rather finish the job?”

“Oh, what an offer,” Lorelei hums, stepping closer and winding her arms around Sif to fuss with her bra. “I always thought the play should have ended with Viola realizing Olivia was better, anyway.”

Laughing, Sif leans into her touch. “Well, yes. Orsino’s an idiot, and Sebastian and Andrew clearly had a tragic but doomed romance. That’s the only way to fix it.”

“I keep expecting someone to rewrite it, doom all of the men to each other and let the women really have at,” Lorelei continues, unhooking Sif’s bra and pulling it off. “You’d think by now.”

“Well, yes, but God forbid there be lesbians in our Shakespeare,” says Sif playfully. “Gay men are fine, but women, oh, no!”

“Popular media’s fear of women who are anything but heterosexual is a joke and an insult all at once,” Lorelei replies airily, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of Sif’s panties and beginning to pull them off.

Sif’s enjoying this, but all of a sudden she realizes that Lorelei’s still completely clothed, and she makes a half-hearted noise of protest. “Do I get to do the same for you?”

“I suppose so,” Lorelei says airily, because on her part it’s actually a completely conscious choice to do with how she presents herself and how it gives her power, but she also just really wants to be naked with Sif right now.

“Now,” replies Sif, eyeing Lorelei’s dress, “how does this come off?”

Lorelei raises an eyebrow. “You’re a smart girl,” she says, “you figure it out.”

Sif snorts, running her hands down Lorelei’s sides and gathering the skirt up to her waist. “You’re obnoxious,” she says, kissing her harshly.

“And you’re incredibly aggressive when you’re drunk,” Lorelei retorts. It’s clear she means this as a compliment.

“Damn right.” Sif works on removing the rest of the dress over Lorelei’s head, moaning a little when she sees that Lorelei’s not wearing panties, and tosses it aside before grabbing Lorelei around the waist and shoving her tongue in Lorelei’s mouth.

“Shit, you’re hot,” Lorelei whispers, her arms winding around Sif’s shoulders.

That makes Sif grin. “Thanks.” Lorelei’s bra is strapless, and she unclasps it and pulls it off before grabbing one of her breasts and squeezing it.

Lorelei’s eyes roll back, but she’s grinning too. “Keep doing that,” she instructs, urging Sif in the direction of the pillow fort.

Sif shuffles awkwardly toward it, not wanting to let go of Lorelei, and then, pushing the blanket serving as a door aside, shoves Lorelei in so she lands (softly) on her back. Then she straddles her and gives her a series of hard kisses on her neck.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lorelei moans, pressing her hand into Sif’s back so that it keeps her right where she is doing exactly what she’s doing. “You’re actually vicious, aren’t you?”

“For you,” says Sif, scraping her teeth against Lorelei’s skin. “I just assumed this is how you wanted it.”

“I’m not complaining,” Lorelei agrees. “I just wasn’t sure you had it in you. Consider it a pleasant surprise.”

Tossing her head proudly, Sif kisses her on the lips again, while moving her knee between Lorelei’s legs. After a few moments of kissing, she bites at Lorelei’s lip experimentally.

And that makes Lorelei groan again, spreading her legs as wide as she can and pressing her hips against Sif’s. “More,” she breathes.

“Ooh, begging so early,” teases Sif. “I would’ve thought you’d be prouder than that.”

“Honey, this isn’t begging,” Lorelei murmurs, “this is insisting.”

“All right, then.” Sif starts to nudge her knee against Lorelei’s center. As she does, she sucks a nipple into her mouth, then bites down.

“Goddamn,” Lorelei says, canting her head (which has the sole effect of exposing more of her throat, should Sif feel like dealing with that). “See how fun it can be?”

Sif lets go long enough to ask “What?” even though she’s pretty sure what Lorelei means.

“Fucking relaxing long enough to do this,” Lorelei declares.

“Oh, I’ll show you relaxed,” growls Sif, moving her knee faster.

“A threat,” Lorelei coos. “How _cute_.”

“I think I’d be a little nicer to the girl who’s got you flat on your back.”

“Or what are you going to do about it,” Lorelei whispers.

“Sit on your face, and then get up and leave.”

It sounds like another threat, but it makes Lorelei almost purr. “Then you’d better keep me in line,” she says in a voice that she almost never means.

“Oh, I intend to. But I’m going to make you work for it.” Sif pushes her leg against Lorelei, hoping she’ll get the hint.

“ _Are_ you,” Lorelei hums, though it’s not really a question. She lets her arms fall to her sides, then spreads herself out even more, raising an eyebrow daringly.

And Sif takes that dare, leaning down to pull Lorelei into a sitting position and hold her on her leg. “I want you to ride my leg,” she says, and is immediately overcome with shame at how much that resembles bad porn dialogue.

Lorelei can see how embarrassed Sif is, and there’s something really quite cute about it. Plus, she’s proud to have brought that out in Sif. But most importantly? “You don’t need to ask so nicely,” she murmurs, immediately grinding down on Sif’s leg and giving a dramatic moan.

Sif huffs and grabs her around the shoulders once she’s sure Lorelei’s not going to move. “Give me a show?”

“I wouldn’t do anything but,” Lorelei declares, throwing her head back and wailing as she presses against Sif’s leg.

“A believable one,” scoffs Sif. “Despite what I said earlier, we’re not in a porno.”

Lorelei pouts. Usually that move works, but then again it usually works on idiot dudebros who think they’re actually getting her off by doing their sad bare minimum. So instead she arches her chest toward Sif’s mouth, humming.

“Fine.” Sif rolls her eyes and sucks a nipple into her mouth. Her hand comes up to play with the other one.

Lorelei is trying very hard not to make any more of those overdramatic noises, but that particular combination of attention is one she has a hard time resisting (probably because she so rarely gets to enjoy it). “Yes,” she hisses in spite of herself.

Pleased with herself, Sif makes a self-satisfied noise and lets go of Lorelei’s nipple in order to bite at her breast. “Now _that_ was a real reaction. I knew you could.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lorelei asks indignantly, although she knows.

“Oh, I wanted to see if I could get you to drop the sex kitten facade for two minutes. Obviously I can.” Sif sucks at her breast, leaving a dark bruise.

Most of the time, being told something like that would make Lorelei squirm uncomfortably, defensively, but she’s enjoying herself too much to care. “Claiming your prize, I see.”

“Yep,” says Sif, pausing her attempts to repeat the action. “I like the idea that you’ll see it tomorrow.”

“Hot,” Lorelei comments. “I sort of figured you for possessive.” Normally that drives her nuts, so she’s not quite sure why right now it’s doing the opposite.

“I like to see where I’ve been,” says Sif casually, moving to the other breast. “Now, I think I told you to do something earlier.”

Obligingly, Lorelei grinds down on Sif’s leg, rolls her hips slowly. She’s being a brat, but it seems appropriate right now.

“Well, if you want to draw this out, it’s your orgasm,” says Sif with a shrug. Then she bites down on Lorelei’s nipple.

“Holy fucking shit,” Lorelei squeals. “Shit, more of that, pull my hair.”

Sif reaches up to do so, enjoying how responsive Lorelei is. She tries giving her hair a yank at the same time as she twists her nipple.

“Fuck,” Lorelei moans. She pushes down against Sif’s leg - Sif’s very muscular, very strong leg - and just for a moment she loses track of exactly where she is or what’s going on, it feels that good.

“Ooh, there we are,” says Sif playfully. “Still want to go slow?”

“Fuck, I don’t know, whatever,” Lorelei groans. “This feels better than anything has all year.” Anything of course meaning anyone, any of her fabled encounters.

“Really? That’s flattering. Although less so because I know that at least half of the guys you hooked up with are shitty lays.” Not from personal experience, of course, but when you’ve dated the head cheerleader you end up friends or at least acquaintances with half the team, and those girls were _brutally_ honest about their sex lives.

“Some of them can be trained,” Lorelei shrugs, shutting her eyes. “Others of them less so. It’s always worth trying, though.”

Sif chuckles. “Is it? I’d rather just go with someone I know will be good.”

Lorelei’s just drunk enough that she won’t be able to explain her methodology (and just sober enough that she recognizes this) so she doesn’t bother. Instead she purrs, “I’m flattered.”

“So are you trying to train me, or am I an exception?”

“Girls almost never need training,” Lorelei declares.

“Glad to hear it.” Sif sucks at Lorelei’s breast more, tugging at her hair.

“Come on, yes,” Lorelei urges, moving her hips harder and faster.

Sif groans a little despite herself and moves to bite at Lorelei’s neck.

“ _There_ ,” Lorelei hisses, grabbing at Sif’s hair to keep her there.

“As you wish,” breathes Sif, running her teeth across Lorelei’s collarbone and then going back up to nip at her more.

Lorelei sighs hungrily and whispers, “You sure you’re not like this all the time?”

“Not for a while. You just bring out that side of me.” Sif sucks at the skin of her neck.

“Mm, how exciting,” Lorelei gasps.

“Yes, you seem pretty excited.” Sif punctuates her sentence with another pull on Lorelei’s hair. “I almost feel sorry for those stupid boys who didn’t get to see you like this.”

“It’s their loss,” Lorelei replies haughtily, because haughty is safe.

Sif rolls her eyes. “You’re so irritating.” She bites Lorelei’s neck again, hard enough to make her squeal.

“And you have the horrible habit of acting like you’re above things, but that doesn’t matter,” Lorelei says casually, after one such squeal.

“Oh, and you don’t?”

“Not in the same way,” Lorelei shrugs.

Growling a bit, Sif gives her hair a good yank and replies, “I could still get up and leave you here.”

“You won’t do that,” Lorelei retorts.

“How do you know I won’t?” She won’t, because having to face the boys looking mussed up _and_ horny as hell sounds like the worst thing possible, but she wants to know how Lorelei knows that.

“Because,” Lorelei whispers, “you want to know what I’m going to do to you.”

“Big talk for someone who still hasn’t come,” retorts Sif.

“Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment,” Lorelei replies, because it seems like the right thing to say.

Sif scoffs, “Uh huh. And what does _that_ entail?”

“One where we’re not bickering like -”

“Always?”

Lorelei wrinkles her nose. “That’ll do,” she says, because there’s no point in turning that into a fight too. “Maybe I’m used to coming in a spotlight. So to speak.”

“A spotlight? Should I go find a lamp for her majesty to kneel under?” Sif rolls her eyes.

“I don’t mean a real one, Sif,” Lorelei mutters. “I just mean… the appropriate attention.” Because she’s arrogant enough to say things like that and unashamed enough to do so without fuss.

“All right, fine.” Sif leans down to suck on her nipple again, raking her fingernails down Lorelei’s back.

And it doesn’t take long for Lorelei to get caught up in that, rolling against Sif’s leg and pressing back into her fingernails and - “ _God_ , fucking… dammit,” she shouts, too turned on to care how loud she’s being.

Sif hums in a satisfied sort of way and moves to kiss Lorelei on the lips as she’s calming down. It’s not really gentle, but it’s more gentle than any of their other kisses have been.

Lorelei notices this, but she feels good enough that she doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she takes this moment to rock her weight forward and push Sif back against the ground, smirking triumphantly.

Breaking the kiss, Sif comments, “Oh, I see how it is.”

“What? It’s my turn,” Lorelei says, shifting so she’s straddling Sif’s hips.

“Yes, but you just have to be on top now.”

“Of course,” Lorelei chirps, like that should have been obvious. “I’m treating you. It’s kind of a big deal.”

Sif makes a face, but she also reaches up to try to stroke down Lorelei’s arm.

“Oh, no,” Lorelei mutters, reaching for Sif’s wrists and pinning them down beside her. “Just let me do this.”

Sif squirms underneath her playfully. “If you insist.”

“I do,” Lorelei says firmly, because she’s honestly something of a control freak when it comes to sex and she’s got to make up for letting herself come apart a minute ago. “Can I trust you to stay there if I need my hands for some other things?”

After a moment, Sif nods. She’d put up more of a fight, but watching Lorelei worked her up and she’s a little desperate.

“Good,” Lorelei coos, immediately moving to rake her nails down Sif’s sides. She smiles at the red lines that calls up, then bends to kiss one. “Gorgeous as you are on top, I think this might be even more of a treat.”

“You’d better enjoy it. I’m never on the bottom.”

“I could sort of guess that,” Lorelei teases. “But hey, turnabout is fair. I’m never on the bottom either.”

“An exciting night for both of us, then.” Sif smirks. “So what exactly did you have in mind for me? You built it up so much earlier, I’m curious.”

Lorelei laughs, slowly easing her way down Sif’s body and pressing kisses to her skin. “I need to test a theory,” she says. “It’s that you taste that good _everywhere_.”

That makes Sif moan a little. “I’m all for you testing that.”

“Good,” Lorelei repeats, positioning herself between Sif’s legs and biting the skin of her abdomen as hard as she can manage (which is pretty damn hard).

Sif shrieks and her body jerks a little. “Fuck!”

“So far so delicious,” Lorelei purrs, kissing the spot gently as if to make up for it.

“Thanks,” gasps Sif. “Glad to know I’m living up to your expectations.”

Lorelei laughs at that, because honestly, Sif is surpassing every expectation she can. “Now, let’s continue,” she says, moving in to lick up Sif’s center, which makes her gasp with delight and immediately do it again.

Moaning a little, Sif moves her hips against Lorelei’s mouth. “That’s good,” she murmurs.

“Not really going to be happy settling for good,” Lorelei retorts, teasing her tongue between Sif’s folds.

“ _Oh!_ Oh god.” Sif’s eyes practically roll back in her head.

“More?” Lorelei mumbles, gazing up at Sif inquisitively.

“Yes!” Sif’s hips buck up.

Lorelei doesn’t need to be told twice, she just dips her tongue into Sif immediately, humming happy nonsense at her still-perfect taste. (Perfect is not a word that Lorelei throws around lightly. Or at all, actually. So it’s quite the compliment.)

Sif’s moans get louder and louder with every movement of Lorelei’s tongue. “You’re wasted on guys,” she pants.

“It really has been too long since I’ve done this,” Lorelei agrees, preening. “I forget how fucking brilliant it is.”

“Well, if you’d ever like a reminder I think I - ah! volunteer,” replies Sif.

“Oh,” Lorelei exclaims, and she hopes to hell that it just sounds like she’s delighted by Sif’s taste because she really, really doesn’t want to explain being surprised that Sif would voluntarily enter into repeat encounters with her. And she really, really, _really_ doesn’t want to explain being completely unsurprised that she’s not entirely opposed to this idea.

Instead, she returns to licking inside of Sif, searching for the little spots that are going to really undo her. “Now, just say when you’re ready,” she murmurs.

“Christ, I don’t want you to stop,” whimpers Sif. “So fucking good.”

“Keep that up,” Lorelei mumbles.

Normally Sif would bristle at an order like that, but she’s feeling so good she doesn’t have the presence of mind to do anything more than keep moaning “Yes, _yes_.”

“God, you even sound hot,” Lorelei whimpers. “I could listen to you for years.” Not the sort of thing she says often or ever, given that _years_ is a pretty terrifying time frame, but it’s true.

“You’d get bored,” Sif pants, “but I’m not sure I would. _God,_ Lorelei…”

Lorelei cringes, and then immediately wonders why she’s cringing because objectively it’s true. “There are ways to keep things interesting,” she says dismissively. “Do you wanna come?”

“Please,” Sif whimpers, not even caring that she’s begging a bit. “I need…”

“What, sweetie,” Lorelei murmurs. “This?” She drops a kiss on Sif’s clit, almost playful.

Sif yelps. “That, that, more of that!”

“Oh, how could I resist, when you’re so cute asking?” Lorelei giggles before turning her attentions back and licking around Sif’s clit decisively.

Making a kind of sobbing noise, Sif moves against Lorelei’s mouth desperately and whines, “Goddammit, _please!_ ”

Lorelei doesn’t say anything, just focuses even more intently. Her hands are around Sif’s hips, holding her through her tremors, and her own hips are tilted enough to be up next to one of Sif’s thighs.

So, after not much more of that, Sif’s screaming through her climax, louder than she’s been in a long time. Finally she flops into the pillow underneath with an exhausted sigh. “Oh my god.”

Grinning, Lorelei rolls onto her back beside Sif. “I knew you were going to be worth it.”

Sif freezes, confused. Her mind’s still a bit fuzzy so she can’t have heard that right. “Sorry?”

“Worth it,” Lorelei repeats. “You. I’ve…”

But before she can say anything else, she realizes what it is she’s doing. Realizes what she’s been doing all night. It’s some _Cruel Intentions_ -type shit, is what it is, but she’s been pining and fantasizing and she didn’t see it and that’s… that’s not okay. She does not do those things, period. Even regarding pretty tomboys with eyes that could stop anyone in their tracks.

“Forget it,” Lorelei mutters.

“Okay,” replies Sif, still confused. “Er, were you...should I get dressed?”

“I don’t know,” Lorelei says. “Whatever you want to do.” She’s planning on staying in this godforsaken pillow fort until she can collect herself and go out there like everything is normal, but she doesn’t feel compelled to tell Sif this.

“Well...I’m not feeling like moving right now,” admits Sif.

“Fine,” Lorelei mumbles. Very calculatedly, she turns on her side, hugs a spare pillow to her chest. “Sorry, I had too much to drink. Don’t worry about it.”

“All right,” says Sif, trying not to feel hurt (that’s ridiculous, everyone knows Lorelei’s not a cuddler, and anyway, she didn’t even start the evening off _wanting_ this). She can’t help but reach over and gently run a hand down Lorelei’s back, though.

Before she can stop herself, Lorelei whimpers, then immediately hides her face in the pillow as if that will erase it. This isn’t _okay_ , and the fact that she isn’t okay is especially not okay because she’s always okay. She does this kind of thing all the time.

But not like this.

“Good night,” she whispers, both to be polite even though that’s not normal either and to cut off any further attempts at conversation.

“Er, good night,” replies Sif, weighing in her head the lack of desire she has to get up against the embarrassment of having the boys find her naked in a pillow fort, passed out next to Lorelei, of all people. But finally, she dozes off listening to Lorelei’s breathing and the muffled noises of rowdy partygoers coming from various parts of the house.

 

* * *

 

When Sif wakes up, she’s alone. That Lorelei’s left doesn’t surprise her, but she is more than a little surprised that no one’s come looking for her. Then again, judging by the natural light filtering in through cracks in the pillows, it’s the next morning, or possibly afternoon. Maybe the boys just went home without her.

There’s a blanket thrown over her, too. That definitely wasn’t there when she passed out. _So either it was the world’s most considerate frat boy,_ she thinks, _or Lorelei’s more softhearted than she’ll admit._


	2. drinking champagne made of an angel's tears and pain, but I feel celestial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Bobbi and Lance's divorce, Isabelle convinces Bobbi to drink and dance her worries away. Unfortunately, that only sort of works, but they _do_ (literally) run into one of Bobbi's neighbors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vaguely referenced in [ I'm on the hunt for who I've not yet become, but I'd settle for a little equilibrium](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2035785/chapters/8886103).

“Hey, get up. We’re going out.”

Bobbi groans, slamming the pillow over her head. “I don’t want to move for a week,” she says. “Come back then and we’ll talk.”

“Nope,” says Isabelle cheerfully. “You need to do something to celebrate. So we’re going out. I’m single, you’re single, let’s mingle.”

“I was doing something,” Bobbi retorts. “I was sleeping off the residual emotional hangover. God, I just keep imagining his pathetic sad little face, all -” She pauses to flip over and approximate the expression. “All _Bobbi, why don’t you looove me anymore_.”

Isabelle giggles. “Yeah, he was doing some of that at me too. It’s probably good you ended it, but jesus christ, I have never known a needier man. Or been gladder to be a lesbian.”

Bobbi sits up and stares at Isabelle for a good fifteen seconds before asking, “Do you think I should have tried to explain it to him?”

“The thing we’ve been talking about?”

“Yeah,” Bobbi says. “I feel like it might help him to know… I don’t know. Know why.”

“In theory, yeah,” Isabelle says with a nod, “but I seriously doubt he’d accept aromanticism as a legitimate thing. The man is not very good at understanding concepts that don’t apply to him.”

“He’s really not,” Bobbi sighs. “I just feel really bad about it.”

“Don’t,” replies Isabelle. “It’s not your fault you guys have wildly incompatible ways of processing emotional shit, and you didn’t know about it till now. It happens. And now he’s free to go off and find some girl who will _love_ his neediness.”

“But if I tried harder…”

“You’d both end up more miserable than you already were.” Isabelle sits down next to her and, looking right at her face, continues. “It sucks, but it’s how things work out sometimes. It’s not any different than if I’d gone out with him like he wanted me to in college. No matter how much I might’ve tried to be attracted to him, he’s a guy. It wouldn’t work. And you wouldn’t ever be able to fall in love with him, at least not the way he wants, and that’s okay.”

“Why the hell couldn’t I have figured this out when I was still with Clint?” Bobbi moans. “At least he wouldn’t have taken it so goddamn personally. Which is hilarious, because I thought it was personal with him, that I loved him but just wasn’t in love with him.” She makes a face. “This is one of the times that knowing better now actually sucks.”

Isabelle pats her on the shoulder, slightly awkwardly. “But now you do know, so...you can proceed accordingly. Or something. Sorry, Bob, you know I suck at emotional pep talks.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Bobbi smirks. “And I appreciate you trying.”

“Great! And now, I’m here to get your mind off of it. With drinks. And potentially a one-night stand, if you’re up for it.”

“What, with you?” Bobbi asks.

“Well, that wasn’t where I was going with that, but I guess if you wanna…”

Bobbi shrugs.

“But first we’re going to the local queer bar for drinks and dancing. Probably you’ll find somebody there, if you wanna.” Isabelle tugs on Bobbi’s arm. “C’mon, up.”

 

* * *

 

Bobbi sighs at the drink in front of her. “Well, Paloma,” she says to it, “I guess you’re the gal I’m taking home tonight.” It’s a slightly morose statement, but she’s not feeling thrilled about life at the moment.

To wit: despite this being a queer bar, her first, still-sober turn on the dance floor was punctuated with a total of three guys skeezing on her. She didn’t talk to them enough to figure out if they were straight or not (she’s known some incredibly aggressive bi guys) but they still were neither appealing, polite, or what she came here for. And now she’s sulking at a table along the wall while Isabelle chats up some leggy brunette, completely oblivious.

“Parkour, huh? That’s pretty hardcore,” Isabelle’s saying, practically purring. “I hear you have to be kind of...flexible to do that.”

The other woman chuckles. “Could say that. I could give you a private demonstration sometime if you wanted?”

“Jesus christ,” Bobbi mutters, downing half her drink in one swallow.

“I’d like that.” Isabelle’s giving her the smoulder that Bobbi’s seen a hundred times before (never directed at her), and she puts out her hand to touch the woman’s arm. “Can I have your phone to put my number in it?”

“I don’t need to be looking at this shit,” Bobbi groans, turning around to stare at the dance floor. She winds up sitting backward in her chair, resting her chin on the top and trying not to think about how gross that probably is and ultimately sipping her drink petulantly.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” the other woman’s saying. “You just here for a little fun tonight?”

Isabelle replies, “Oh, my friend over there…” - she gestures toward Bobbi, and Bobbi resolutely does not turn around - “she just got divorced and I refused to let her lay around feeling guilty. How’s that drink going, Bobbi?” she calls.

“Not enough of it in my system to say,” Bobbi shouts, sounding bored.

“And I admit, I wasn’t going to complain if I came across somebody interesting,” Isabelle adds. “Which you definitely are, Jess.”

The woman who is apparently named Jess laughs low in her throat and says something else flirty, Bobbi refuses to pay attention to this conversation any longer. “I’m getting a refill,” she mutters, standing up so dramatically she almost smacks a passerby in the face and pushing her way toward the bar with what her drill team captain used to call her “murder face.”

That conversation goes on for a few more minutes before Jess says, “Um, I’m sorry to cut out like this but my friends are leaving, can I text you later?”

“Please.” Bobbi, back at the table with a refill, can _hear_ the smirk in Isabelle’s voice.

Next thing she knows Isabelle has sat down next to her. “Well, that honestly wasn’t part of the evening plans,” Isabelle says, “but she was gorgeous. Couldn’t help myself.”

Bobbi shrugs. “She was that,” she agrees half-heartedly. “Can I ask you something?”

“‘Course.”

“Okay, so here we are, and it’s a pretty safe bet to say you could walk up to most of the girls here and hit on them and have it be well-received,” Bobbi begins. “If they’re here, they’re probably into women.” She shrugs, rolling her eyes. “Or they’re straight tourists who think this is a fun place to hang out because it’s _different_. But even then they’re going to be polite about turning you down, probably.”

“Uh huh.” Isabelle nods.

“So that telegraphs, right?” Bobbi sighs, twirls her straw around for a moment as she tries to think of a way to say it. “People can look at me and maybe they’ll think I’m a lesbian and maybe they’ll get it right and think I’m bi, but how the hell are they going to know what they’re getting into with me if I don’t have a fucking ‘I’m aro, ask me how!’ button pinned to my chest?”

Snorting, Isabelle replies, “I mean, you could get one. I hear the custom ones are pretty cheap if you buy them in bulk.” When Bobbi just glares at her, she continues, “I don’t really know, Bob, this is uncharted territory for me too. I guess maybe just be upfront if you end up clicking with someone?”

“I don’t mean to whine,” Bobbi mumbles. “I just… I guess I hate the feeling that I’m going to disappoint someone else or disappoint myself, one or the other.”

“Fuck ‘em,” says Isabelle, patting Bobbi somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder. “People get disappointed every day of their lives, and they get over it. The ones that get all sad panda on you are really not worth it, believe me. But then,” she adds with a wry smile, “I guess you already know that.”

“Ugh,” Bobbi says in agreement.

“Nah, but seriously, you’re awesome and if people don’t want to fuck you then that’s their problem.” Isabelle bumps her with her shoulder. “I’m still up for that pity fuck if you want it.”

“Well, now that you’re labeling it a pity fuck, I don’t,” Bobbi exclaims, looking offended.

Isabelle laughs. “Well, like. Pity for me? Since Jess went home?”

“Smooth save,” Bobbi deadpans.

They sit there drinking and people-watching for a while - Bobbi picks out one of her earlier suitors on the dance floor and begins narrating his interactions with randoms in the most stereotypical dude voice she can manage, “hey girl, is your name Google because you’ve got everything I’m searching for” and things; Isabelle makes disparaging comments toward the tourists like “do you think this is the first time they’ve actually seen a _real_ queer person? That one girl’s got that wholesome Catholic upbringing look about her, and I would know.”

Finally Isabelle glances over at Bobbi, who (after four drinks) is looking much more relaxed, and says, “You up for some dancing?”

“Fuck yeah I am,” Bobbi giggles. “I’m up for _all_ of the dancing.”

“Alright!” Isabelle gets up and strides for the dance floor, Bobbi at her side.

“This song is shitty,” Bobbi declares, but she’s smiling incongruously.

Isabelle scoffs. “Go to a symphony then, princess.”

“Fuck that, I want to _move_ ,” Bobbi says, placing her hands on Isabelle’s hips and setting a rhythm as they sway back and forth. “I might as well do _something_ with my body tonight.”

“That’s the spirit!” Isabelle replies cheerfully, mirroring Bobbi’s movements.

“So I just have to ask,” Bobbi begins, practically shouting over the music. “Are you doing this routine for _him_ , too?”

“Hunter? Fuck no! I mean, I’m fond of the guy, but he’s no fun at bars. He’s a mopey drunk.”

“Yeah, because I was going to say, this course of therapy does _not_ work equally well on all of us,” Bobbi says wryly, stepping closer to Isabelle so their legs tangle together.

“ _Hey_ there,” Isabelle says, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Getting fresh?”

Bobbi shrugs.

“I’ll take it.” Isabelle rests her hand on the small of Bobbi’s back.

“You’re warm,” Bobbi murmurs, possibly as flirtation but more likely just as an observation.

“Aw, shucks,” says Isabelle. “You know just what to say to a girl.”

“It’s true,” Bobbi insists almost childishly. “You’re very warm and I like it.”

Isabelle smirks. “Well, glad to be of service, I guess.”

“You’re welcome,” Bobbi chirps. “Twirl me.”

Chuckling, Isabelle puts her arm up to twirl Bobbi, and Bobbi starts to go along with it…

...until she loses her footing and stumbles directly into the path of a very solidly-built man and makes him drop his basket of terrible bar chips.

“Oh shit,” says Isabelle, because she’s always eloquent in these types of situations.

The guy grunts. “Uh…”

“Fuck,” Bobbi mutters, because she’s always eloquent when she’s drunk.

“I’m sorry about that,” says Isabelle. “Can I, uh…”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” the guy says with a shrug. “Happens. It’s my fault for trying to walk this way, probably.”

All of a sudden Bobbi’s bottom lip starts to quiver. “No, it’s not your fault at all, it’s my fault, Isabelle, why is everything my fault?”

“Oh no,” groans Isabelle. “Please don’t start crying, I’m too drunk for that, let’s, uh, let’s go get you some food maybe. And you, sir, I will buy you something too.” He looks surprised but follows them to the counter.

“She okay?” he asks.

“No,” Bobbi exclaims.

Isabelle starts rubbing her back and frantically waves at the bartender. “She’ll be okay. You’ll be okay, it wasn’t your fault. Shit happens. He’s not mad, are you…?”

“Mack,” says the guy with a smile. “Promise I’m not.”

“I’m sorry,” Bobbi says anyway. “I’m not usually like this.”

“Having a rough night?” Mack asks sympathetically. “You looked like you were having a good time before I bumbled my way into it.”

“Yes and no,” Bobbi sighs. “The dancing was good. Other parts…”

“She just got divorced,” explains Isabelle. “And it’s not really the guy she’s mopey about, more just...personal stuff.”

Mack nods. “I get it. Always weird when you break up, even if you’re better off that way.”

“I know we both are,” Bobbi says. “Better off, I mean. I just feel like a jackass.”

“Which probably makes you not a jackass,” Isabelle points out. “Anyway. I’m ordering you some shitty chips and Mack…”

“More of the same,” he says with a grin. “They’re not great, but they’re food.”

“And that’s important,” Bobbi agrees solemnly. “Drinking on an empty stomach is never smart.”

Isabelle rolls her eyes, smiles, and orders the food. Then she says, “So, Mack, what brings _you_ here tonight?”

Mack shrugs. “Between boyfriends. Thought I might try to meet somebody. I guess it worked, sort of.” He chuckles.

Bobbi bursts out laughing. “Sort of,” she repeats. “Oh, god, I swear I’m usually so calm, that’s just hilarious!”

“You are very drunk,” says Isabelle.

“No, you’re drunk,” Bobbi retorts.

“Ooooookay.” Isabelle turns to Mack. “So what kind of things do you do, besides hang around bars losing your food to drunk girls?”

He laughs. “Well, I like messing around with mechanical stuff. Cars and whatnot. I do a lot of that in my spare time. And I work at Car’l B. Klean, so there’s that, I guess.”

Isabelle winces. “I’m sorry.”

“Pays the bills. What about you two?”

Isabelle starts to explain her job, but then Bobbi interrupts, “I sell wedding dresses. It’s hilarious. The girl who fundamentally can’t fall in love pushing goddamn Disney princess wedding dresses on people.”

“Hm?” Mack asks, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, that _personal stuff_ ,” Bobbi says a little too loudly, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I don’t experience love that way. Aromantic, that’s the word, isn’t it, Isabelle?”

“Yeah,” replies Isabelle quickly, because she can tell Bobbi’s on her way to aggressive and that’s really not what they need right now. “Basically it’s just how some people work, they wanna have sex with people but they don’t fall in love. Her ex was like, hyper-romantic though, so he gave her a huge guilt-trip about it once she’d figured it out.”

Mack’s nodding. “Gotcha. Interesting. He sounds like a jackass.”

“He’s hurt,” Bobbi sighs. “He doesn’t understand why I don’t love him. I told him I couldn’t and he just thought it meant I couldn’t love _him_ , not that I couldn’t love the way he wanted no matter who he was.” She rests her head in her hands. “I want to, I just don’t.”

“That’s rough,” says Mack sympathetically. “But hey, it’s better that you left so now you can both find something better for yourselves.”

Bobbi moans sadly and Isabelle sighs. “We’re detouring again and this isn’t helpful. C’mon, let’s go dance again. Exercise makes you feel better.”

“Only if he comes too,” Bobbi declares, suddenly clear-eyed and staring at Mack.

“I think you’ll come to regret that when you see me dance,” he says with a wry smile as he stands up, “but alright.”

Bobbi practically bounces off of her stool and holds her hands out to either of them. “I don’t care how shitty this music is or how shitty your dancing is, I’m here for Isabelle Hartley Endorphin Therapy,” she exclaims.

“Ooh, that’s got a ring to it,” says Isabelle, taking Bobbi’s hand.

“Doesn’t it? You should have your own workout video,” Bobbi says.

“That might be a good way to get chicks, actually.”

That makes Mack laugh. “Y’all are weird. But I kinda like it.”

They dance and everything is going well enough - Mack isn’t as hopeless as he thinks, or maybe Bobbi is just too drunk to care - and they’re having a good time when Bobbi hears a man’s voice saying, “C’mon baby, you can drop the act. You don’t have to pretend to like chicks just ‘cause _Glee_ tried to tell you it was cool.” It’s one of the guys that was hitting on her earlier, but he’s not aiming his pathetic attempts at flirting her way.

No, this time he’s picking on a redhead with a buzzcut, a girl who both looks like she must have gotten in with a fake ID and either came with her girlfriend or got very close with a girl, this one a tall, olive-skinned brunette with her hair in pigtails, very fast. Both of them look stunned.

“Jesus fuck,” Bobbi mutters, dropping Isabelle’s hands and striding in their direction.

“Aw, shit,” says Isabelle, almost cheerfully, watching Bobbi walk away.

“What?” asks Mack.

“There’s not going to be much left of that guy by the time she’s done with him.”

Bobbi gets right behind the guy and taps him on the shoulder, looking as innocent as any one person can. “What?” he asks, and he starts to turn around, only to be met with her fist.

“Why can’t assholes like you get it through their heads that girls just might not want to fuck you?” she growls, staring him down as he tries to regather his pride on the floor. The other clubgoers are already stepping back, giving them a wide berth like they know what’s going to go down. “Are you just that arrogant, that you think everyone’s either into you or lying?”

“That,” says Isabelle to Mack. “Bobbi Morse, defender of innocents, scourge of dudebros.”

He nods. “I see. So you’re used to this.”

“It’s pretty routine, really. She’s gone like four months without one of these confrontations, as far as I know, so I guess we were about due for another. Not that I don’t join her sometimes.”

“What the fuck is your problem, chick!” the guy finally shouts, easing to his feet. “We’re all just trying to have a good time here.”

“Well, that’s probably the first smart thing you’ve said all night,” Bobbi chuckles, putting a hand on her hip. “I know I was just trying to have a good time earlier before you came up and harassed me. I bet those girls were trying to have a good time, too. Without you.” He lunges for her, intent unclear, and she just decks him again, this time aiming for his jaw.

By now the floor is practically clear, and more than one person has their phone in hand, though nobody seems to have called the cops yet, either because they’re too riveted or they know this will be more to-the-point. The guy finally gets a couple of hits in (it smarts, but Bobbi is luckily distracted by trying _not_ to appropriately shout, “You punched me in the boob!”) but she gets more; once it seems like he’s down for the count, she heads back to the bar apparently meaning to finish her drink, and when he shows up behind her to try to catch her while her defenses are down she flat-out growls, leverages herself with hands against the edge of the bar, and kicks him square in the solar plexus.

“We should leave,” she says to Isabelle and Mack.

 

* * *

 

“You’re bleeding,” says Isabelle, raising her eyebrow.

“Shit, am I?” Bobbi asks.

“Yeah.” Isabelle gestures awkwardly to Bobbi’s cleavage. “Uh, there.”

Bobbi glances down and pulls a face. “Guess we can take care of that once we get upstairs,” she says, just as they turn into the apartment complex. She giggles at Mack, then. “You don’t have to follow me home, you know. I’ll be all right.”

“Follow you home? I’m _going_ home,” says Mack. “I live here.”

“Oh!” Bobbi exclaims. “Hi, neighbor!”

He chuckles. “Hi yourself. You two gonna be all right?”

“Oh, we’ll be fine,” says Isabelle, smirking. “Nice to meet you, Mack.”

“Likewise. Take care, Bobbi.” Mack waves and turns to head towards his apartment.

Bobbi chuckles as she watches him go. “Bet that’s not what you had in mind tonight.”

“Meeting an enormous gay black man who was a good sport about having a basket of chips spilled on him? Nope,” replies Isabelle with a grin. “But I’d say it worked out pretty well.”

“I kinda meant the part where I kicked the shit out of a stranger,” Bobbi chirps, sloppily punching the elevator buttons.

“Oh. Yeah, well, it didn’t exactly surprise me. You just can’t help coming to the aid of damsels,” teases Isabelle. “Not that they looked especially damsel-y.”

“Honestly, I think I’d been halfway looking for an excuse to deck that guy,” Bobbi shrugs.

Isabelle snorts. “Can’t blame you, he was a creepy jackass.”

“And then some,” Bobbi says. “I’m suddenly incredibly tired, like, too tired to take you up on that not-pity fuck, but once I get my wounds tended to I wouldn’t say no to a nice spooning.”


	3. I've been saving all my summers for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While doing an uncharacteristic favor for a friend, Victoria meets a woman named Isabelle.

“Just text me when you’re finished,” Victoria says.

“I will,” Pepper agrees, collecting her things and stepping out of the car. “Thank you for driving me. I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone else.”

Victoria shrugs and joins Pepper outside, leaning against her car door. “I was going to be in the area anyway,” she says. “I’m generally disinterested, not completely heartless.”

“But I know you,” Pepper replies. “I know you intentionally leave that vague for most people.”

“Yes, well, that’s because most people don’t deserve to know the alternative,” Victoria declares.

A tall, short-haired brunette wearing a T-shirt with the gym’s logo on it walks by, a bag swung over her shoulder. She seems focused on her destination, but glances their way and gives Pepper a nod and Victoria wink.

That catches Victoria off-guard. “Friend of yours?” she asks Pepper.

“That’s Isabelle,” Pepper explains, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “She’s just kind of a flirt.”

“Does she… come here a lot?” Victoria asks.

“She’s one of the trainers,” Pepper explains. “So yeah, she’s here a lot.”

“Oh,” Victoria says, more faintly than she’d like.

“Why?” Pepper teases. “Are you curious about her for a reason?”

“Just making conversation,” Victoria snaps.

 

* * *

 

“I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I’m not here before,” Victoria says immediately, then shaking her head. “Wasn’t here before. Not here usually. I’m playing chauffeur while my friend is getting her tires fixed.”

“That’s good of you.” The brunette smirks and sits down on the couch next to her. “I’m Isabelle. Pepper might have mentioned me, she’s taken one of my classes before.”

“She told me who you were earlier, at least,” Victoria shrugs, trying to temper her expression.

Isabelle raises an eyebrow. “Oh, what did she say? I hope nothing too damning.”

“The word flirt may have been used,” Victoria says, mostly to see what reaction that will garner.

Isabelle just shrugs. “She’s not wrong. I like paying attention to a pretty woman.”

“That so,” Victoria murmurs, and if it sounds coy that’s probably not an accident.

“It is. What about you, what’s your name?”

“Victoria.”

“Pretty name,” Isabelle says with a smile. “And what do you do, Victoria?”

“Sell jewelry to idiots,” Victoria says flatly. “It’s a real thrill.”

That makes Isabelle chuckle. “I can imagine. I actually like my job most days, but people are pretty dumb, by and large.”

“Especially people who would buy jewelry that looks like a tiny ass,” Victoria says, finally cracking a smile.

“Oh my god, I know exactly what you’re talking about,” replies Isabelle with a laugh. “Those are ridiculous! Then again, I’m guessing you won’t be offended if I say I think most jewelry like that is.”

“Not at all,” Victoria says. “But it was a better salary by far than Target was willing to give me, not to mention the hours don’t make me crazy.”

“Well, that’s always a perk,” agrees Isabelle. “And what else do you like doing, Victoria?”

“Reading historical biographies that weren’t written by or about a conservative newscaster,” Victoria says without missing a beat. It’s not the only hobby, but it’s a good one to use to judge someone else’s sensibilities.

Isabelle nods, like she’s thinking about something. “Interesting. What sort?”

“Preferably ones written by and/or about women,” Victoria shrugs. “Men are boring.”

“I knew I liked you,” replies Isabelle with a smirk. “If that’s not too forward to say.”

Victoria chuckles. “You know, normally it might be, but I’m thinking about making an exception.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Thinking about it,” Victoria says. “What do you do for fun?”

“Watch bad movies and mock them, mostly,” says Isabelle with a grin. “As you can see, I’m effortlessly cool.”

“Define ‘bad,’” Victoria says cautiously.

“SyFy Channel quality or failed blockbuster, mostly,” Isabelle replies. “You see _After Earth_?”

“God, no,” Victoria snorts, so blunt she’s got no hope of being graceful.

It makes Isabelle laugh, though. “It’s hilarious with drinks. My friend and I went to see it twice and smuggled them in.”

“How rebellious,” Victoria deadpans.

“That’s me,” says Isabelle blithely. “Listen, I have a class in a bit and I haven’t showered, but here.” She pulls a piece of paper and a pen from somewhere and writes something on it before handing it to Victoria. “You can do what you want with it.”

“Is there a time of day that would be better for me doing what I think I want with it?”

“Evenings, probably,” says Isabelle with a shrug. “Call or text, whichever you like.”

“Maybe I will,” Victoria replies.

 

* * *

 

After she’s parked the car, Isabelle gets out and comes around to open Victoria’s door.

“Aren’t you fancy,” Victoria hums, giggling even as she steps out.

“I try,” purrs Isabelle, offering Victoria her arm. “Manners and all.”

“If I didn’t figure you were being sincere, this would be incredibly cheesy,” Victoria points out.

“Oh, I’m aware,” says Isabelle with a smirk. “It’s meant a little ironically, but I would really like to give you a nice time tonight.”

“I appreciate the forthrightness,” Victoria says. “I get a good feeling this is going to be worth my time.”

Isabelle laughs. “Well, hopefully.” She opens the restaurant door. “Ladies first.”

“Shouldn’t we be walking through together, then?” Victoria says. “I mean, not to assume, but…”

“Oh, I’m a woman, just not a lady,” teases Isabelle. “If you hadn’t noticed by my choice of restaurant.” She gestures to the DENNY’S logo on the door.

Victoria shrugs, unusually good-natured. “I figured you wanted something easy,” she says.

“You’re not wrong,” agrees Isabelle. “That, and my diet is actually awful for someone who works at a gym.”

“How awful?” Victoria asks, almost in a dare.

“Too much grease,” Isabelle replies, almost cheerfully. “I do drink a shitton of water, at least.”

“I guess that counts for something,” Victoria teases.

They get a table soon after that, and after drinks are brought and food is ordered, Isabelle asks, “So, how do you know Pepper?”

“She’s one of the few people in the mall that I can actually stand to be around for any length of time,” Victoria explains dryly.

“Ah.” Isabelle nods. “Makes sense. She’s a pretty decent person to be around.”

“Neither annoyingly chirpy nor overly dramatic,” Victoria agrees. “Also, never once has she challenged my sexuality, and that’s something.”

“Oh my god, yes,” says Isabelle, more passionately than she means to. “I grew up Catholic, and Jesus Christ, if there’s anybody that feels like they have to challenge your sexuality, it’s devout Catholics.”

“Oh my god, that’s too funny,” Victoria says. “Me too. Or I at least went to Catholic school and my folks pretended to be concerned with it. Don’t talk to them much anymore, largely for that reason.”

Isabelle nods. “Me neither. Not that there was much mine could do about it, since I went through half the girls on my lacrosse team.”

“I bet that was quite the scandal,” Victoria laughs.

“They didn’t figure it out for a ridiculously long time,” says Isabelle with a smirk. “Sleepovers were fun.”

“Ever experience the joys of dorm rooms?” Victoria asks.

“Oh yes. Most of my roommates were either cool with it or knew how to make themselves scarce. The one that didn’t...didn’t last long. And you did too, I’m guessing?”

“By senior year, it was something of a badge of honor to have survived being my roommate.”

“Damn. Do you mean you were just a pain in the ass, or you had a lot of girls like I did?”

“Mostly the latter,” Victoria smirks. “Bad enough being the class bitch, being the class lesbian on top of it? It got interesting.”

“I feel like we would’ve gotten along,” says Isabelle. “And not just because you’re hot.”

“But surely there’s no way we would have both existed at the same school,” Victoria says, mock-affronted and plenty sarcastic. “Statistically, of course.”

Isabelle snorts. “Good point. God forbid there be more than one misanthropic, disbelieving lesbian in the same room.”

“I’m pretty sure it would cause a Catholic school to spontaneously combust,” Victoria agrees.

“Would’ve been pretty funny,” Isabelle points out. “It sounds like a movie.”

“What, combustion?”

“A Catholic school combusting because of a pair of lesbians,” explains Isabelle, snickering.

“Sounds like one of those terrible movies you like to watch,” Victoria teases.

“You’re not wrong,” Isabelle agrees. “Except those don’t usually have lesbians in them, unfortunately.”

“If they did, they’d probably be awful, pulpy lesbians,” Victoria points out.

“Oh, no doubt.” Isabelle smirks. “Well, _D.E.B.S._ is sort of like that, but it’s more pulpy in the trashy spy academy way.”

“You’re going to have to fill me in,” Victoria says. “I’m horrible at seeing movies.”

“Oh, it’s this silly little movie about a spy academy where one of the recruits falls in love with the villain, but they both happen to be girls.” Shrugging, Isabelle grins and adds, “It’s ridiculous, but I enjoy it.”

“That sounds almost endearing,” Victoria says contemplatively, and she’s probably talking about the film.

Isabelle gives her a flirty look. “I could show it to you sometime, if you’d like.”

“I think I would,” Victoria says.

Their food arrives soon after that, and Isabelle asks, almost shyly, “I feel like I should find out, how do you feel about rats?”

Victoria tilts her head. “Like, rats that make their way into abandoned buildings?”

Isabelle laughs. “No, domesticated ones. Pets. I have two. They’re very sweet, but if you’re bothered I can keep them in the cage when you’re over.”

“I can honestly say I’ve never given pet rats a thought,” Victoria admits. “I guess I would be willing to give them a try.”

“No pressure,” says Isabelle. “I know it’s odd if you’re not used to the idea. Gabby likes to sit on my shoulder. Xena, not so much, but she’ll pose for pictures sometimes.”

“Oh my god,” Victoria laughs.

“Yeah, I’m _that_ lesbian,” jokes Isabelle. “Except instead of cats, it’s rats. Named after lesbian icons.”

“I think that’s adorable,” Victoria says before she can stop herself.

Isabelle preens. “I get the sense you don’t say that a lot, so thanks.”

“I really don’t,” Victoria says. “It’s a big compliment.”

“I appreciate it. And I think you’re pretty cute yourself.”

“Now, I haven’t even gone and done anything to get that reaction,” Victoria replies. “I’m inclined to think you’re just flattering me.”

“And if I am?” asks Isabelle playfully.

“Well, I’d be interested to see how you react to my calling you out on it,” Victoria shrugs.

“Well, I think it’s true,” says Isabelle. “You’re a very interesting person, and also very cute.”

Victoria can feel herself starting to blush, so she hurriedly changes the subject. “You know what is neither interesting nor cute?” she asks. “This hamburger.”

That makes Isabelle laugh. “Yeah, well, agreed. Not sure what I expected though. If you’d like, I can try to find us something else when we’re done here.”

“You know, I really wouldn’t mind,” Victoria says. “If you’ll pardon my boldness, we could always do dessert at my place.”

Isabelle raises an eyebrow. “Definitely pardoned. And I’d like that, I think.”

Victoria opens her mouth to reply, but her phone buzzes loudly. “Just a second, I need to see who this is.” And she pulls it out, making a face at her screen.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” Victoria says. “It’s just Pepper.” She smirks. “Wondering if I need rescued yet.”

“And do you?” teases Isabelle.

“Entirely the opposite,” Victoria says.

 

* * *

 

“I see why I never heard of this before,” Victoria murmurs.

“That doesn’t sound good,” says Isabelle lightly, taking a bite of cheesecake.

“On the contrary,” Victoria says, rolling her eyes playfully. “It’s too gay and it’s too much fun.”

Isabelle smiles. “I’m glad. It’s silly but it cheers me up when I’ve had a bad day, and makes me happier when I’ve had a good one. It’s...it’s nice being able to share it with someone.”

Victoria nods and takes a bite of her own. “Definitely,” she says. “I’m glad you wanted to share it with me.”

Isabelle shifts a bit so she’s touching Victoria, and they watch mostly silently until the credits roll. Then she asks, “Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

“I’d prefer it to the alternative,” Victoria hums.

Chuckling, Isabelle leans in to kiss her.

“Isabelle,” Victoria breathes against her lips, reaching one hand up to her shoulder.

Isabelle sighs in return and slips her hand down to Victoria’s side, pulling her closer as they kiss. Victoria’s a damn good kisser.

This keeps up for a few minutes until Victoria pulls back to ask, “Same as before about being forward. Bedroom?”

“Yes please,” whispers Isabelle. “You’re...goddamn.”


	4. I feel like if I'm too kind then you will only change your mind, take advantage of my heart and I'll go back into the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz starts feeling weird when Jemma makes friends with the new kid, Will, and he's not sure why.

Fitz’s bedroom isn’t very big, because the apartment he and his mum live in isn’t very big. It’s got about enough room for his bed and his desk and a few feet of floor space, and that’s it, really. So he’s at his desk and Jemma’s on his bed, and it’s not weird because that’s how they always study. They don’t have music on or anything, since they both don’t mind silence while they work. He actually finds it easier to concentrate on reading assignments if it’s silent, and today he’s supposed to be reading the first few chapters of _Great Expectations._

“Supposed to be” being the key words. Not that he’s _not_ trying, and he knows he could get into it if he wanted to, but honestly, he doesn’t. Scientific writing is technical and sometimes long-winded, yes, but Dickens was paid by the word, and it shows, and after five minutes of trying and failing to get past page 5, he sighs and puts the book down. “What are you working on?” he asks, hoping she won’t mind the distraction.

She doesn’t mind it, and it really doesn’t surprise her in the slightest. When they’re interested in what they’re doing, they both focus very intently but Fitz is almost impossible to snap out, but when they’re doing things that they _have_ to do but don’t particularly want to, he’s much more easily distracted. So she just sets her laptop beside her and folds her hands in her lap, saying, “Research for a history project.” If he wants to know more he can ask, but he may or may not want to, so she’s leaving the option open.

“On what?”

She shrugs, unable to stop smirking. “It’s on the moon landing, actually.”

“Oh really?” Fitz smirks too. “Be sure to specify that it was 1969, not 1968 but a year laaaaaater.” He sings the last few words, badly, knowing she’ll get the reference.

She makes a face at him, even though she was expecting it, and badly tosses a wadded-up ball of scrap paper at him. “We all know how that turned out,” she retorts. “Though I will admit that was the first thing I thought of when it was assigned. Silly, how that sticks with you.”

“When did we even watch that?” Fitz asks with a chuckle. “We were just kids.”

“We’re still just kids, practically,” Jemma points out. “But it’d have been… oh, a couple of years, at least?”

Fitz shrugs. “We’re in high school, we’re not kids. Anyway, I guess it was one of the more memorable of those shows.”

“We’re thirteen, maybe we’re not kids but we’re still pretty close,” she declares. “It certainly was that, though.”

“I didn’t see the fuss about _Even Stevens_ , generally. That episode was fine, but mostly it was just average.”

“Mostly, but _Ren_ ,” Jemma gushes. “Also, what about _High School Musical_?”

Fitz flushes and narrows his eyes. “What about it?”

“I know that’s the most played album on your iPod,” she says sweetly.

He scowls. “So what if it is? It’s catchy.”

“I’m just saying that’s a similar genre.”

“Not really, it’s a movie as opposed to one sitcom episode, and they got the choreographer who did _Dirty Dancing_ and _Newsies_ to direct it,” he points out. “So it’s a little more sophisticated.”

“Similar, not the same,” Jemma giggles. “But it is, in general, higher quality.”

Fitz nods, satisfied that she agrees. “Well, anyway, don’t take any cold medicine before you present and you should be fine,” he teases.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she replies, just this side of haughty. “Anyway, it’s not an individual presentation, so I’ll have Will to keep me on track should I stray.”

Fitz jolts. He’s not really expecting it. “Will?”

“My partner for the project, yes,” she says. “Will… Daniels, I think it is? He’s new this semester, so it wouldn’t surprise me if you hadn’t met him.”

“Hm.” Fitz wiggles his computer mouse to wake up the monitor and logs into Facebook. For completely legitimate, non-stalking reasons, of course. “What’s he like, then?” he asks, too casually.

Jemma shrugs. “He’s all right,” she says. “We’ve only been working on the project a few days, but he’s not one of those who makes me do the whole thing myself and he’s not one who gets angry about not doing it some particular way he thought up that’s stupid, so…” She tilts her head. “Why?”

“Dunno.” Fitz’s stomach feels weird. Twisty. There are, of course, multiple “Will Daniels” accounts, but only one has listed his school as William Morris High. He clicks on the profile and glances through Will’s photos. He’s tall, muscled, smiling in a lot of them, and he has facial hair. _Who has facial hair in high school?_

“What are you doing?” Jemma asks, sitting up a bit to get a better view of the computer screen.

Fitz immediately spins his chair around so he’s blocking the screen. “Nothing.”

“You don’t need to stalk him online,” she points out. “I could just introduce you.”

“I’m not stalking him,” protests Fitz. He’s not, not really. Just investigating. “How old is he?”

“Sixteen,” Jemma says plainly, like there’s nothing unusual about that.

“ _Sixteen_?” sputters Fitz. Logically he knows sixteen-year-olds can be high school freshmen, but it seems so much older… “What’s he doing in a freshman history class?”

“He’s behind a couple of years in some things,” she explains, making a face. “I’m not sure the details, we haven’t really had a chance to get into it, but I know his dad is in the Navy? That’s probably most of why.”

“Or he’s not that clever,” Fitz points out. That’s not nice, but while Will’s eyes seem kind, he doesn’t have a particularly smart-looking face.

“Well, he’s not us,” Jemma says, rolling her eyes, “but he’s not dim. He’s very diligent.”

Fitz makes a dismissive noise in his throat. “I bet.”

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “Just, he’s so much older, it’s kind of weird…”

“Well, we’re a bit too young for our year in school, that sort of thing happens,” she says very rationally.

“I guess. But he has _facial hair_. Who has facial hair in high school?”

“Lots of people try, anyway,” Jemma smirks. It’s not meant meanly, just as simple fact.

Fitz pouts reflexively. It’s not _his_ fault his hair is light enough that it’s harder to see. “It’s just...weird,” he repeats, because he’s not sure what else to say.

“I promise I’ve no intention of letting the cool older boy peer pressure me into any illicit behavior,” she declares primly.

“I’m not worried about _that_ ,” he says. “He’s...cool, though?”

“I suppose so,” Jemma says. “He seems popular enough, whatever that counts for. I think he plays soccer?”

Fitz has already seen pictures of him in multiple soccer uniforms. “I see,” he says. “Well, hopefully he doesn’t turn out to be an arse.”

“I don’t think he will,” she replies. “Like I said, he hasn’t exactly been exhibiting any of the classic group project warning signs. It could be much worse.”

Fitz shrugs. “I suppose.”

Jemma sighs. She can tell that this isn’t going anywhere, so she asks him, “What are _you_ working on, then?” even though it’s obvious.

“I was reading _Great Expectations,”_ says Fitz, who is still scrolling through Will’s Facebook. “Well, he liked _Doctor Who_ , he’s not a total idiot.”

“Oh, does he!” she exclaims brightly. “I’ll have to ask him his preferences.” That’s a personality test, after all.

“I bet he says Ten or Four,” says Fitz, sounding grumpier than he means to. Not that he has anything against Ten, but Nine gets overlooked since Ten came along and that makes him grumpy. And Four is okay, but he likes Three best.

“Well, what’s wrong with Four?” Jemma asks.

“Nothing, I just...you know. Everyone picks Four.” They’ve had this discussion before.

“Four is much easier to find, and Ten’s right now,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “So it isn’t really surprising, and at least he’s interested in some science fiction.”

He grunts, “Yeah.” He feels weird and he’s not sure why.

Jemma shrugs and turns her attention back to her laptop, but after a few minutes her phone jingles and, somewhat apologetically, she says, “I guess Mum’s actually trying to have a family dinner tonight and she expects me home.”

“‘S alright,” says Fitz. “Good luck with, er, your project.”

“Thanks,” Jemma says, sounding a bit baffled but only because she’s not sure why he’s being so strange about it. She gets up and gathers her things, adding, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, but he’s already turned back to the computer. Definitely not still looking at Will’s page.

She leaves, and he studies Will’s face for a moment. At first glance it’s not really that interesting of a face, just sort of generically masculine. He suspects the beard helps with this. Will looks so happy in most of his pictures that Fitz can’t look away, though. But finally, his mum knocks on his door for dinner and he closes the page, resolving not to think about it anymore.

 

* * *

 

“And I was already feeling a bit daft about it, but when I tried to undo it that just made the entire _document_ delete, and I was flustering so that just made it worse, but Will was so kind, he just asked permission and then took my laptop and fixed the whole thing,” Jemma finishes, beaming.

Fitz scowls. That’s supposed to be _his_ job. “Well, how nice for him,” he says, and it comes out nastier than he means it to.

“It was nice for me, too,” she says archly, “considering that was a document we were using for classwork that exact minute.”

He sighs. “That’s good. I’m sorry, I dunno, I just…” He shrugs and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“You just what?”

“I don’t…” Fitz squirms in his seat. “It’s weird. I feel weird.”

“Do you need to see the nurse?” Jemma asks.

“What? No,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “I mean, about...oh, I don’t know. Never mind.”

She frowns. “You know I’d have asked you for computer help if you’d been there,” she says. “It was just rather pressing.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “It’s just. Weird.”

“That I didn’t run halfway across the building to get you to fix my mistake?”

Shaking his head, Fitz replies, “No, no, but he’s...is there anything he _isn’t_ good at?”

“He’s sort of rubbish at maths,” Jemma offers. “I mean, we’re in a more advanced course than he is.”

Fitz isn’t expecting that, and he laughs. “Well, that’s something, I guess.”

“Why do you care?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Dunno,” he says, and it’s the truth. He can’t explain why hearing about Will makes him feel weird, it just does. “Forget about it. I’m fine.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re _not_?” yelps Fitz. “Why not?”

Jemma shuts her locker and shrugs. “Well, Will and I have to work on the presentation, so he’s coming over.”

“But couldn’t he...couldn’t he drive himself to your place and you ride the bus?” It sounds silly even as Fitz is saying it.

“That would be a waste of time,” she says, rolling her eyes playfully. “I mean, he’d get there half an hour sooner than I would, and that’d be half an hour less we’d have to work. And he has to head home by six, anyway, so every little bit counts.”

“I guess,” he says. He’s not sure what the word is for what he’s feeling. Jealous, maybe? That’s silly. What could he even be jealous of?

“I’m sure he’d drive you home, too,” she offers.

He thinks about that. It startles him to realize that he wants to say _okay_. “That’d be weird,” he says instead. “I’ve never even met him, he wouldn’t want to drive a stranger home.”

“He wouldn’t mind, he knows you’re my best friend,” Jemma says, waving a hand.

“Hm.” He thinks about Will’s kind eyes, about the red two-door sedan that’s in some of Will’s Facebook pictures. It’s not exactly a fancy car, but it might be nice to ride in. Especially if Jemma were there too. “When are you leaving?”

“Oh, he just had to talk to one of his teachers about something and then he was going to meet me and we were going to head off,” Jemma explains, fiddling with her phone.

Fitz glances at the bus, which he knows leaves at precisely 3:19 every afternoon. It’s 3:15. “I…”

The bus horn goes off, and he backs away. “I’ll see you later,” he says quickly, then turns to run for the bus.

He doesn’t look back until he’s on the bus, and then as it goes by the parking lot he sees Jemma walking up to Will’s red car, smiling. Will is smiling, too. Fitz gets that twisty feeling in his stomach again.

 

* * *

 

Fitz hates assemblies. Even ones that have a point are basically pointless, and they’re loud because the entire school is crammed into one room, and they take time away from class. He’s almost glad when he has to stay after class to clarify something with his history teacher so he can be late to today’s assembly.

Until, that is, he sneaks into the gym and sees Will sitting next to Jemma, in the spot where he usually sits. Then he kind of feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

Whatever’s going on on the court is loud enough that Jemma doesn’t feel shy about calling out, “Fitz! Over here!”

He turns and runs out before he even realizes what he’s doing.

He makes it to the boys’ locker rooms (empty, of course) before he stops, panting, and tries to figure out why he’s panicking. It’s something to do with Will, he knows that much. He didn’t have this weird twisty feeling before Will came along. And every time it happens it’s when Jemma talks about Will or he’s seen Jemma with Will…

Shaking his head, Fitz staggers over to a bench and sits down. Normally he hates it in here, but at the moment it’s quiet and that helps. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of a page from the school paper, which no one reads but which seems to be in every room of the building somehow, and he almost jumps when he realizes it’s Will’s face looking back at him. “Idiot,” he chastises himself, feeling ridiculous for being startled.

He stares at the photo, which is of Will in his soccer uniform, trying to make sense of it all. _He’s quite handsome,_ he thinks. _Very manly face, for sixteen._

Wait. Jealous. Is he jealous? Of what? Jealousy is a ridiculous emotion. What does Will have that he doesn’t…

Well, a manly face. And Jemma. Is he jealous of how Jemma is with Will? She hasn’t shown a lot of interest in boys before, but maybe that’s because she’s only thirteen, after all. And _he’s_ only thirteen, and wasn’t that about when people started to get crushes and things? He’s always found the whole idea rather silly, but maybe…

So, he’s got a crush on Jemma. That’ll take some getting used to.

 

* * *

 

He’s not sure what to do about this until a few days later, when they’re in his bedroom again sort-of watching _Star Trek._ They’re on his bed, because there’s nowhere else to sit, and usually they sort of lean against each other, but today he feels warm and awkward and he’s contorting himself to avoid touching her at all costs.

Mum brought them a bowl of popcorn earlier, and he’s been eating out of it idly, as has Jemma, but then their hands brush accidentally in the bowl and he jerks away. “What’s gotten into you?” she asks, alarmed, because they don’t go out of their way to touch, but Fitz doesn’t usually react that way to accidents, at least between them.

He feels his face grow hot and before he can stop himself he blurts, “Well, I figured out I’m jealous of Will because you like him and I want you to like me instead. I think. I don’t know, it’s all so confusing.”

Jemma’s eyes go a bit wide and she pauses the DVD. “What made you think I like Will?” she asks, because there are several questions she has but that one’s the simplest.

“You’re always talking about him, and you were sitting together during the assembly.” Fitz shrugs weakly. Suddenly he’s starting to feel even sillier than he already did.

“I’m working on a project with him,” she reminds, trying for gentle. “We’ve been spending time together. And we were sitting together because we’d just come from class, and you know I hate sitting alone at those things.”

“Yes, but...but...you...he…” Fitz shakes his head, trying to understand. “Then what am I jealous of?” he asks, more pitifully than he means to.

“I don’t know,” Jemma says kindly. “All I know is that I definitely do not have feelings for Will. He’s not the worst boy, by far, but…” She makes sure she’s caught his eye before continuing. “You remember that… conversation we had? About Christy Carlson Romano?”

He blinks. “Well, yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“About how I’m fairly sure I feel the way about her that I’m supposed to feel about…” She wrinkles her nose. “Boy band… people?”

“Oh, right. I guess so. So you don’t like...boys at _all_ , then?”

Jemma makes a face. “I’m not sure yet,” she says. “I think… I don’t like boys as much. I’m not wired to. Maybe not at all, or maybe just not very often. I like girls a lot more, I think.”

“So not Will, then.”

“Not Will,” she declares. “He’s all right, but I’m not…” She wiggles the cursor. “You ask me to pick out the most attractive person on this starship, and, rather outdated hairstyle aside, I’m going to say Deanna Troi easily. You understand?”

He tilts his head. “I guess?” He doesn’t really think anyone in _Star Trek_ is attractive. His favorite is Wesley, but that’s because Wesley is a misunderstood genius. “But I get a weird twisty feeling when I see you with Will. That’s jealousy, isn’t it?”

Jemma frowns. “Might be,” she says. “I don’t really have too many real-life examples for you. Do you think about me like that when I’m not with Will?”

“What? No, that’d be odd,” he says immediately.

“But if you liked me, you’d think about me and not just in the way of being jealous,” Jemma says. “I mean, probably.”

“Oh. Good point.” Fitz tilts his head. “But then nothing makes sense. This only started when you told me about Will...”

Jemma raises an eyebrow meaningfully.

It takes him a minute to connect the dots. “Oh,” he says finally, in a very small voice. “I suppose maybe I like Will?”

“I mean, I’m not going to be able to tell you that,” she says softly, “but it’s a possibility.”

“Huh.”

 

* * *

 

The revelation that he might like boys is something that Fitz has to process. It’s not a _problem,_ it’s just not something he’s ever considered before. (Although it might explain why he likes Zac Efron’s parts of _High School Musical_ so much.) He’s always just figured that he would start liking girls during puberty, since it had never been a concern of his. But now that he thinks about it, the idea of liking girls is _weird._

It takes him about a week to get used to the idea, and another week of tossing the word “gay” around in his head before he’s comfortable applying it to himself. He mentions it to Mum sort of offhand, and she’s quietly accepting, as he knew she would be. Meanwhile, Jemma continues to hang out with Will, and Fitz continues to avoid him (though now at least he knows why).

They’re waiting for the bus one day when Jemma asks, very carefully, “Don’t you want to actually meet him?”

Fitz starts. “Er,” he says, recovering. “I dunno. I’m nervous.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to, I’m not going to make you. But it might be good?”

“I guess.” He bites at his lip. “You won’t tell him, right?”

“Of course not,” Jemma says, and she looks like she’s going to continue but Will ambles up just then, waving.

“Hey Jemma, want a ride home?”

Jemma smiles as big as she can. “I was actually going to head home with Fitz. I’m doing sort of a personal project, for… the internet, where I’m looking for homoromantic subtext in, er, _Harry Potter_. And I need his help… looking.” It’s not the clumsiest lie she ever told, mostly because this is actually something she would do, but it’s not exactly smoothly told, either.

Will tilts his head. “Homo-...like, gay? That’s kind of a weird project.”

Fitz presses his lips together to stop the yelp of protest from escaping.

Jemma shrugs, trying not to let her own reaction to that show. “Well, there are enough popular pairs I wanted to see if there was substantive statistical evidence for any of them, compared to the straight pairs,” she says coolly. “It’s amazing the things the internet can suggest to you, however indirectly.”

“I guess,” Will says with a shrug. “I wouldn’t have thought to make _Harry Potter_ gay. I mean, they’re for kids, right? Kind of weird to put gay people in kids’ books.”

“Kids can be gay, too,” Jemma retorts, smiling though with some effort. “Or their families might be, or - it’s not anything odd. It’s biology.”

“If you say so,” replies Will. “Anyway, so no on the ride then?”

“Yeah, no,” Jemma says, affecting a playful American accent to emphasize her turning him down. “Thanks, though.” And she waves him off, rather pointedly.

Off he goes, and Fitz is standing there unsure how to feel. “Um,” he says weakly.

Suddenly, Jemma feels a bit bad. “Well, I mean, there is a decently-sized homoromantic component to the fandom,” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” he replies, because saying anything else would be too difficult at the moment.

“I’m sorry,” she says in a rush. “I don’t know why that came out of my mouth, I just…”

“Not your fault,” Fitz mumbles, looking at the ground. “I’m an idiot.”

“No you’re not,” she insists, nudging his shoulder gently. “If that’s how he thinks, he’s the idiot. And, and it’s awful, and it’s rotten, and I shouldn’t have done that, it was mean of me, but at the same time I’m glad I did, because I don’t want to be friends with someone who thinks like that and hurts your feelings.”

He tries to smile. “Thanks.” The bus honks. “Oh, we’d better…”

She nods and tugs him up, toward the bus. “We’re kids,” she says, “we’ve got plenty of time to find someone who’s not an idiot that we can like _like that_.” As she slides into a seat, she breaks out grinning. “My reading is only going to take an hour or so. We could goof off a bit before we get down to it.”

“How?” He’s glad of the distraction, but hoping she has some ideas.

“Well…” She trails off, thinking. “We could always read awful fanfiction?” That usually amuses her, at least.

That makes Fitz smile for real. “Where did we leave off in _My Immortal_ , anyhow?”

“I have it bookmarked,” Jemma assures him. “There was a rock concert in Hogsmeade, I think.”

“That sounds nice.” Distracting, at least. At least he has Jemma. He’s not sure what he’d do without her. He reaches over to grab her hand and squeeze it fondly. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” she says. “Always, okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Same here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moon landing song is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wrb4K3-DJQE), and the silly reading of My Immortal was inspired by a dramatic reading by [these Scottish gentlemen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrx2kZk4Pzg&list=PLA69320D806B3F106).


	5. got bubble wrap around my heart, waiting for my life to start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly after a breakup, Melinda ends up at the local queer bar, where she runs into an acquaintance.

Melinda glances around the Unicorn (it’s really called the Angry Unicorn, but none of the regulars use the full name). It’s a pretty quiet night, which is ideal for her. Her plan is to finish this drink, have another, then maybe find a pretty girl to chat up once she’s feeling friendlier. Natasha convinced her to go out tonight - “you’re moping, or moping as much as you ever mope” - and truth be told, it wasn’t a bad idea. She wouldn’t say she was _moping_ , but she hasn’t really gone out since the split. A change of scenery, if nothing else, will probably help.

There’s a few couples here on dates, and a few stragglers drinking alone. Most are out on the dance floor, which you couldn’t pay Melinda to do by herself matter how many drinks she’d had. A tall brunette steps up to the counter and orders before taking the drinks back to the table where her girlfriend is sitting. A woman dressed like she’s maybe from the nineteenth century (very dapper) is scribbling in a notebook and sipping a drink. And across the room she spots Anne Weaver, from the science department at Andrew’s school. Interesting.

It doesn’t take too long before Anne spots her, too, and strides over with a smile that’s something between amused and gently surprised. “Fancy seeing you here,” she says.

“Same to you,” Melinda says with a smirk. “It’s unexpected.” She keeps her tone light and teasing.

“I like to get out every now and again,” Anne replies, shrugging gracefully. “And despite the name, this place really is much calmer than most of the bars in this town.”

Melinda nods. “That’s why I like it. And, well, I know most of the men aren’t going to hit on me.” She snorts and adds, “Some of the girls do, but that’s fine by me.”

“Even the most aggressive woman hitting on you is better than the nonsense drunk men like to play at,” Anne agrees.

“Exactly,” nods Melinda. “Anyway. No offense, but you seem way too classy for a place like this,” she says with a playful smile.

“You think I’m classy?” Anne asks, just as teasing.

“Classier than me,” replies Melinda, shrugging. “You’re an established professor and I just work in security right now.”

Anne raises an eyebrow. “Class is in how you carry yourself, I think,” she says. “You carry yourself well, in my opinion.”

“Well, thanks.” Melinda smiles. “That’s nice of you to say. How is your work going, anyway?”

“About as well as ever,” she says. “I just published a piece, but it’s a bit too dry, pun intended, to be discussed in this atmosphere, I think.”

Melinda chuckles. “I’m sure I’ve heard dryer, but I won’t push. Andrew never liked talking about his work with me, he felt like that was letting it interfere with his personal life too much.”

Anne frowns, not sure what she’s allowed to say about that. “A great deal of it isn’t even that interesting to the people who do it,” she says instead, trying for something of a joke.

“Really?” Melinda tilts her head. “I can’t imagine teaching and writing on something I didn’t find at least a little interesting. Hell, security’s not that interesting but occasionally I get to knock someone over, so that kind of makes it worth it to me.”

“A correction: what I’ve found is that it can be thrilling to do and incredibly dull to discuss, if in part because you know you’re boring your audience,” Anne says with a wave of her hand. “Well, that and the fact that, especially as publishing is concerned, there can be a great deal of minutia.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” says Melinda. “I’m sure it would go over my head, but hey, that’s why I don’t do that kind of work.” She takes a sip of her drink. “I’m better at punching.”

“Come over to my table,” Anne encourages. “It’s a better place to talk than the bar proper.”

“True enough,” Melinda says, grabbing her drink and following Anne back to said table. “I just feel ridiculous sitting at a table alone.”

Anne holds up her phone and waves it, smirking. “Always pretend you’re waiting for something more important than this,” she says.

“Smart.” Melinda nods. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“It’s an easy trick,” Anne agrees. “And much more portable than bringing homework or its equivalent to the bar to occupy yourself.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve graded homework at a bar before,” chuckles Melinda. “That seems impossible.”

“It’s been a very long time,” Anne admits, “but I haven’t always been as good at time management as I am now. Sacrifices had to be made.”

Melinda snorts. “I suppose. I can’t even imagine that. I like having a job that doesn’t involve any homework.”

Anne laughs. “I can certainly see the advantages,” she admits. “What’s security like, then? I know that must sound a very broad question, but I’m curious.”

“It’s only fair, since I asked you about your job. It’s fine. The place I’m at right now is basically a for-hire company, so I end up doing a lot of different things depending on the job. Mostly I end up as backup at events, sometimes concerts, once I worked a dog show. It’s always something new.”

“Is there a lot of need for security at dog shows?” Anne asks. “I hadn’t realized.”

Melinda laughs. “I guess this was a pretty big show, I’m not sure. They wanted to make sure nobody was going to mess with the dogs. They were cute dogs, so it wasn’t exactly a terrible job.”

“That’s a charming image,” Anne says, offering a smile. “You amongst a slew of puppies.”

“Oh, they were full-grown dogs,” corrects Melinda with a smirk. “And all in their crates or with handlers. Still, I’m flattered, I think, so thanks.”

“It was meant as flattery,” Anne promises.

“Then thank you. You certainly don’t have to be that nice to me.”

“Exactly what do you mean by that?” Anne asks, genuinely curious.

Melinda shrugs; the alcohol is loosening her tongue a bit. “You’re one of Andrew’s coworkers. I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted to stay out of it entirely and avoid me, even if it wasn’t a particularly dramatic breakup.”

“Andrew is a grown man and you and I are both grown women,” Anne declares. “What goes on between two consenting adults is nobody else’s business. It’s not as if I’m just looking to pick you up so I can run back to him with gossip.”

“Oh, so you’re looking to pick me up?” teases Melinda.

“Well, why did you come here tonight?” Anne counters.

Shrugging, Melinda replies, “Sort of got badgered into it by a friend. Plus I was bored, maybe looking for some company if the opportunity arose.”

“Euphemistic company, I suppose?”

“If you’re offering.”

“I am if that’s what you’re interested in,” Anne says smoothly, managing to make it sound equal parts a come-on and a compliment.

“And it really won’t cause any trouble for you at work?” Melinda asks.

“No,” Anne insists, shaking her head. “It needn’t even come up.”

“Alright then,” says Melinda. “You’re gorgeous, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I most certainly do not,” Anne says, clearly pleased. “You as well, not to sound like a copycat.”

Melinda smiles. “No need to worry. Thanks. Shall we head back to my place or yours?”

“I’m always glad to host,” Anne suggests.

“Sounds good.” Melinda finishes the last of her drink and then smirks at Anne. “Shall we get out of here, then?”

“I’ll call a cab,” Anne says.

 

* * *

 

“Wow, this is not the kind of house I would expect a science professor to have,” Melinda says once they’re standing in front of Anne’s house. “No offense meant.”

Anne shrugs, a bit grandly (it matches the scenery). “In the right arenas, scientific expertise can net someone a truly absurd amount of disposable income,” she says. “Not meant as bragging, just explanation. I like the place being so large because it means there’s never any worry about having enough room for everyone at parties.”

“Makes sense,” nods Melinda. “It’s lovely.”

“Thank you,” Anne hums. “It does take a bit of upkeep, I admit, but yardwork and things can be calming at times.”

“I can’t garden at all,” Melinda says, smirking, “so I’ll take your word for it.”

“Oh, the really technical parts of it are beyond me,” Anne says. “But an afternoon of weeding is monotonous in a pleasant way.”

“Fair enough,” replies Melinda, then adds in a self-deprecating way, “I have a black thumb.”

“It’s not for everyone,” Anne concedes. “Do let’s get inside, though. I have a feeling that will be much more fun than discussing landscaping.”

“Yes,” says Melinda with an amused snort. She follows Anne inside and then asks, “Shoes?”

“If you’d like,” she says. “Just by the door is fine.”

Melinda nods and slips off her shoes, then glances around. She raises an eyebrow at the long row of small flames that act as a divider from the rest of the house. “That’s...dramatic,” she comments, smirking.

“If you’d believe it, that came with the place,” Anne says. “It’s easier to appreciate the absurdity than get it taken out.”

“Does it actually give off that much heat? I guess it would have to, just from the sheer amount of it.”

“It does, though it’s not overwhelming,” Anne shrugs. “It’s more decorative than anything else, but at least I don’t have to chop wood.”

Chuckling, Melinda says, “You don’t seem like the type for that, no.”

Anne smiles. “It wouldn’t be my favorite of activities,” she agrees. “Let me give you at least somewhat of a tour. This way.” And she leads Melinda down the main hallway.

Melinda follows, suspecting that this might be a short tour (she doesn’t mind). On the way, she looks at the various artwork Anne has hanging up (some scientific diagrams, some abstract art). “I’m guessing this tour starts and ends in the bedroom?” she asks wryly.

“This tour _could_ take you around the whole place, if you really wanted, but I expect that’s not what you’re after,” Anne says over her shoulder, smirking.

Shrugging, Melinda says, “I wouldn’t be opposed to it, later. It’s your house, I’m just the guest.”

“And a very welcome one at that,” Anne declares. “Later, then, if we feel like moving.” She opens the bedroom door and gestures for Melinda to walk inside.

Melinda does. It’s a elegantly-decorated room, sporting a ridiculous amount of bookshelves and multiple huge stacks of paper. “Nice,” she says. “Not that I’d expect anything else at this point.”

“It, and the rest of this house, at least helps satisfy my childhood urge to live in a fairytale library,” Anne jokes. ‘The _actual_ library even has one of those clever sliding ladders.”

“Ooh, fancy,” says Melinda, smirking. “That’s endearing, your childhood urge.”

“I always thought that sounded so grand,” Anne admits. “To be surrounded by so many books you might not be able to read all of them. I was going to read all of them out of spite, you see.”

Melinda chuckles. “Of course. How’s that plan going, then?”

“Fairly well,” Anne says. “I haven’t gotten there yet, but there’s plenty of time.” She steps out of her pumps. “Shall we…?”

“Yes, I think so,” says Melinda, shedding her coat. “Do you want to undress yourself or do it for each other?”

“Do you have a preference?” Anne’s tone is playful, like she’s teasing Melinda for being so polite.

“I usually just start on my own, but I thought I’d check first.”

Anne removes her own coat, smirking. “That’ll be quicker, then,” she says. “I’m interested in getting to the rest.”

Melinda rolls her shoulders, pleased, and starts to unbutton her shirt. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Anne hums. “The end result is going to be the best part, I’m sure.” She unzips her dress and steps out in one smooth movement.

After pulling off her shirt, Melinda steps out of her pants and underwear and then reaches back to unhook her bra. “Damn,” she says, blatantly staring at Anne. “You’re really something.”

“Likewise,” Anne says, smirking. “I’m going to come and kiss you, if that’s all right.”

Melinda nods. “Please.”

So Anne crosses the distance between them and takes Melinda’s face in hand. “Gorgeous,” she whispers before initiating a kiss.

Melinda sighs into her mouth and kisses back, keeping it gentle at first since she’s not sure yet how Anne likes it. It’s been awhile since she’s kissed a woman, and she’d almost forgotten how soft their lips were.

For now, Anne steers the kiss passionate but not too hard, a nice in-between, and she pushes some of Melinda’s hair behind her ear. “Bed?” she asks.

“Yeah,” murmurs Melinda, letting Anne guide her in that direction since it’s Anne’s bed, after all.

Anne smiles. “I get the feeling you aren’t always so mannered in bed,” she observes.

Melinda laughs. “Depends on who I’m with,” she says playfully. “I’m going easy on you to start with.”

“And what’s the alternative?” Anne asks.

“I tend to like calling the shots. But I can be adaptable.”

Anne hums low in her throat. “Intriguing.”

“Yeah?” Melinda leans up to kiss her again, nipping at her bottom lip. “I could show you, if you want.”

“Well, now you’ve got me all curious,” Anne says, running a hand down Melinda’s back. “The only proper thing to do would be experiment.”

“Alright,” Melinda says. “Lay down and I’ll get started.”

“Mm, yes, ma’am,” Anne smirks, sprawling out on the bed. “Do you like that, the ma’am thing? And more importantly, am I allowed to prop myself up and watch?”

“I don’t mind it,” Melinda replies, climbing on top of Anne and sliding up to kiss her again. “But the idea is that you’ll be too busy enjoying yourself to do much watching.”

“I like that note of challenge in your voice,” Anne says.

“Good. That’s my goal, anyway.” Melinda moves down to start kissing Anne’s neck. “Teeth, or no?”

Anne shrugs.”Try it out, we’ll see,” she says. “Preferably none where it will make for awkward questions come classtime.”

“Of course.” Melinda nips at Anne’s neck, somewhat gently, before kissing her way down toward her breasts. She takes a nipple into her mouth, making a satisfied noise.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Anne murmurs. “I like that.”

Humming, Melinda sucks a little harder, reaching with her other hand to play with Anne’s other breast.

It causes Anne to arch her back, clearly pleased. “Wonderful,” she sighs out.

Melinda keeps that up for a little while, then switches to suck on her second breast for a bit, then smirks at Anne. “Enjoying yourself so far?” she teases.

Anne nods eagerly. “You’re very talented,” she says.

“And I haven’t even really gotten started yet,” replies Melinda, scraping her teeth along Anne’s skin and then starting to worry a mark into it.

“Buildup,” Anne remarks. “Very good.” By now, one of her hands is gripping the bedsheet very tightly, belying her pleasure.

“Mhm,” murmurs Melinda. “I like to take my time.” She starts on another area, sucking at it.

“Much appreciated,” Anne sighs.

“No need to rush. This is nice.” Melinda starts to slowly kiss her way down Anne’s stomach.

“Thank you,” Anne says, rolling her hips. “I’m quite - quite glad this is how the night…”

“Turned out?” Melinda asks, smirking.

“Yes,” Anne says. “That. Very much.”

“Me too,” replies Melinda, grabbing onto Anne’s hips and nuzzling briefly at her center before moving to kiss first one thigh and then the other. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Anne repeats, really indulging in the vowels. “You as well. So far, I quite like this view.”

“Mine is pretty nice as well,” teases Melinda. “How do you like it, fingers, mouth, both?”

“Both,” Anne says decisively. “Spare no expense, as it were.”

Melinda nods and leans in to lap at Anne almost curiously for a minute, then replaces her tongue with a finger. “Good?”

“Very,” Anne hums. “You’re good at that.”

“Glad you think so.” Starting to move her finger, Melinda flicks her tongue around Anne’s clit to see how she’ll respond to that.

If the noise Anne makes is any indication, that’s a particularly good choice, and - as Melinda predicted - her eyes are starting to flutter closed, distracted by the pleasure.

Satisfied, Melinda adds another finger and starts sucking as she gets a steady rhythm going with her fingers.

“God, yes,” Anne cries. “That’s so…”

Melinda uses her other hand to hold Anne’s hips as still as she can, then pulls back just long enough to say, “Stay still, hm?”

Anne nods, smirking as she murmurs, “Yes, ma’am.”

Humming in response (and enjoying the way Anne stiffens in response to that), Melinda goes back to sucking on Anne’s clit while crooking her fingers just so.

After a while of that - tension, moaned responses - Anne shivers and shouts out her climax, breathless. “ _Damn_ ,” she mutters, seeming almost surprised.

Melinda swipes her tongue around a few more times, cleaning her up, then grins at Anne. “Good?”

“Incredible, in fact,” Anne says. “You’re remarkably good at that.”

“I’m alright,” teases Melinda. “Honestly I’m out of practice at that. It’s been awhile.”

“Didn’t seem out of practice to me,” Anne declares, nodding to invite Melinda up for a kiss.

Melinda slides up to do so, gentle since she’s pretty sure Anne is still recovering. “It was nice,” she says, then adds, “You’re not bad at following orders.”

“Glad to hear it,” Anne laughs. “It’s not exactly a common occurrence for me, especially so spur-of-the-moment.”

“Me neither, but I can’t say I have any regrets so far.”

Anne laughs. “You’re a very interesting woman, you know.”

“Thanks,” chuckles Melinda. “So are you. I have a tendency to end up in bed with people who are smarter than me, which you definitely are.”

“I think you’re very clever,” Anne says, but she doesn’t deny the compliment either (probably because, well, she knows it’s true, technically, no offense meant).

Melinda reaches down to run her hand through Anne’s hair, maybe affectionately. “Thanks,” she repeats. “You interested in returning the favor?”

Anne nods. “Give me just a moment,” she says.

“We’ve got time,” Melinda murmurs, kissing her again.

“We do,” Anne agrees. “I know I’ve the morning to lie in, should I be mindful of any scheduling of yours?”

Melinda shakes her head. “I have a night shift tomorrow. I don’t have to be there till seven PM.”

“Perfect,” Anne declares, trailing a hand down Melinda’s body. “I’ll get plenty of time to treat you, then.” She smiles, a bit ruefully. “Would it be presumptuous to ask what you like for breakfast?”

“Not at all. Eggs are good, toast is good. I’m not picky. I’ll eat anything you make except coffee.” Melinda smirks. “I can’t stand coffee.”

“Eggs and toast, then,” Anne says. “The kitchen is one of the silliest rooms to be in by myself. I like having a good excuse to use it.”

“There’s barely a kitchen in my apartment, so that’ll be a nice change.” Melinda starts to draw circles on Anne’s collarbone. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Anne replies. “I assume the earlier order to stay still is no longer in effect?”

Laughing, Melinda shakes her head. “You can do whatever you want, now.”

Clearly pleased, then, Anne arches against Melinda’s hand. “I appreciate the careful attention,” she says. “It’s not something everyone prioritizes.”

“Shame,” says Melinda. “They should. You deserve partners who’ll treat you well.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I’ve had many who don’t do that,” Anne says with a shrug. “Just, especially short-term relationships tend to be a bit more… hurried.”

“Ah, makes sense.” Melinda nods. “Nice to not have to rush, this time.”

“It is,” Anne agrees. “And on that note, I hope I can do the same for you.” Playfully, she turns on her side, as if to suggest Melinda turn over too.

Melinda follows, tilting her head curiously. “And now?” she asks.

“Same question as you posed to me,” Anne says. “Fingers or mouth?”

“Mm, mouth, I think,” says Melinda.

Anne nods and moves down the bed. “Mouth it is,” she murmurs, planting random kisses.

Melinda hums and arches against her. “That’s nice.”

“Is it?” Anne murmurs. “I think I like hearing what you’re feeling.”

In another context that would make Melinda shudder and not in a good way, but here she just chuckles and says, “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, but.”

“Whatever you want to tell me,” Anne says, kissing Melinda’s abdomen.

Sighing, Melinda nods. “Alright. Thanks.”

Anne smiles, moving lower. “Gentle or no?”

“A mix sounds good.”

In response, Anne nips at Melinda’s center, glancing up to make sure that’s what she meant.

Melinda whimpers and her hips jerk up. “Yeah, that’s nice.”

“Good,” Anne mumbles, starting to trace shapes with her tongue.

That makes Melinda sigh again and murmur, “Keep doing that, that’s good.”

Anne nods, focusing intently. Her hands come up to hold Melinda’s hips, just lightly.

Melinda squirms just a bit, smirking. “Was that a hint?” she teases.

“That was whatever you’d like it to be,” Anne says airily, pressing a kiss to Melinda’s clit.

“Alright,” replies Melinda. “More tongue, if you would.”

“Noted,” Anne remarks, seeming amused that she’s continuing to follow orders.

Melinda just chuckles.

Curiously, Anne slips her tongue into Melinda, shutting her eyes in concentration.

Groaning, Melinda says, “Yeah, that’s...that’s really good.”

“Good,” Anne mumbles, clearly pleased. She moans a little at the taste of Melinda.

“Having fun?” teases Melinda.

Anne nods, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s too preoccupied with searching for what’s going to have the most impact.

Melinda moans when she hits a particularly good spot. “That, more there,” she gasps.

“Mm,” Anne hums in response, focusing in singlemindedly.

It’s not long before Melinda comes with a yelp and a full-body shudder. She takes a moment to catch her breath before saying wryly, “You’re pretty good yourself, you know.”

“Thank you,” Anne replies, preening. She moves up enough to rest her head on Melinda’s stomach and idly play with her breasts. “One good turn deserves another, all that.”

Melinda sighs and arches her back a bit to give Anne better access. “It was lovely,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Lovely,” Anne repeats, smiling. “Glad to provide.”

“You certainly did. Anything else you’d like?”

“Halfway-intelligent postcoital conversation?”

“I think I can manage that.”


End file.
